


Displaced

by KindreTurnany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Animal Sacrifice, BAMF Stiles, Disordered Eating, Endgame Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magic-Users, Magical Tattoos, Minor Character Death, Multiverse, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Heather/Stiles Stilinski, Past Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Build Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, The Void, Tricksters, wereraven, werespider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 108,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindreTurnany/pseuds/KindreTurnany
Summary: Stiles switches places with a blood-mage version of himself from a parallel universe where Peter Hale is the alpha. Neither Stiles is pleased by the abrupt change in universe. They each find a place in the other's pack as they face powerful shifters and inner demons on their search for a way home.





	1. Void

**Author's Note:**

> Displaced is canon-compliant through season 6a. The chapter titles will all be "Void" or "Dark" to indicate which Stiles' POV we are in. I wrote a lot of this listening to Fall Out Boy's album Folie a Deux on repeat. I don't think the songs correlate directly to what I wrote, but I feel they must have influenced it.
> 
> Please check the tags for warnings. If you need more information about a warning to decide if you will read this work, you can comment or message me on tumblr @ rinzijade.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The McCall pack looks for a lost girl in the woods.

A girl was missing.

                Stiles shone his flashlight through the shadowed woods, trying to look every direction at once. Why did no one look for missing girls in the woods during the day?

                Half the town had come out to look for her. Only the pack knew she was a werewolf, the third member of Satomi's pack to go missing from Beacon Hills since April. The last time someone hunted Satomi's packmates, their names had been on a deadpool that included Stiles' friends. Something would come of it this time too.

                Lydia asked, "Can you hold the light still?"

                "We don't have enough lights." Stiles squinted into the darkness. "Do you hear any dead werewolf vibes?"

                "I don't hear anything you don't."

                "Sometimes you don't know what you're hearing, right? How do you know what I'm hearing? Can you listen again?"

                "Screaming is supposed to help me listen. Would you like me to rupture your eardrum again?"

                "Never mind." Stiles hadn't been able to hear right for ages after saving Lydia from Eichen House.

                From just behind them, Scott ordered, "Stop bickering, or I can't hear anything either." He raised his hands to block the light Stiles shone on his face when he turned around.

                "We're not bickering," Stiles insisted.

                The other search parties were distant. Stiles had pushed ahead deep into the woods, hoping to intercept whatever took the betas before it started on innocent humans. If the betas were dead, Lydia's power could find them. If they found a monster, Scott and Lydia could fight it. Stiles suspected he would be the one to find the betas if they were alive because superpowers did not beat paying attention. He swung his light through the darkness.

                Scott checked his phone and shook his head. "Parrish says there's no one at the nemeton, but there's something else he thinks we should see."

                "Did he say what it was?" Stiles asked.

                Scott shook his head, squinting in the glare of Stiles' flashlight. "Let's go."

                "Can't he just send a picture? The nemeton hasn't let me find it since the darach had our parents there. I don't think it likes me." Stiles wondered if a tree could be angry he'd been possessed by an evil spirit.

                "It's a tree, Stiles," Lydia said.

                "A magic tree," Stiles corrected.

                "We'll find it tonight," Scott assured them. "I can feel it."

                Stiles didn't have an answer to that. He felt it too. Their sacrifice had left a darkness around his heart, and he felt it squeezing tight.

                Scott led them directly to the nemeton. Parrish waited at the edge of the clearing like he couldn't bear to stand too close to the stump itself.

                "I'm not sure why, but something about it makes my skin crawl," Parrish said with a glance over his shoulder. The shoulder had a shirt over it, so Stiles guessed he hadn't needed to burn anything to get here.

                Stiles pushed past Scott to approach the nemeton. The darkness whirled around his heart. There was something on the stump, a dark image, maybe charcoal or ash in a spiral pattern. His flashlight went out.

                "Really?"

                Stiles sighed and dropped it. His phone had a light, though he'd been hoping to save his battery. It had a shorter range, so he stepped closer to the stump. The spiral churned, highlights and shadows moving indistinctly. When Stiles stood directly over the stump, he finally saw it was made of dozens, maybe hundreds of small spiders.

                With a yelp, he leapt back from the stump.

                "Maybe that's because _it's_ crawling," he said to Parrish.

                Parrish asked, "What does it mean?"

                "The spiral is a symbol of revenge," Scott explained.

                Lydia asked, "Revenge against what?"

                Stiles tried to study the spiders without getting too close. Something had to be controlling the spiders, but who? And why? Peter had once carved a spiral into a deer to lure out first Laura, then Derek. Stiles stumbled back.

                "It's a trap," he shouted.

                A massive shadow leapt from the remains of the root cellar. Fanged teeth tore into Stiles' arm. Screaming, he tugged back. He stumbled away from the monster and tripped on the nemeton's roots. His hand landed in the spiral. Spiders swarmed his arm.

                Lighting struck Stiles' back. He screamed again, or thought he did. The crash of thunder covered the sound.

                Stiles fell. He could still move. He pushed himself up but saw no sign of the spiders or what had attacked him. The nemeton was gone. Stiles knelt on packed earth, rough with rocks but slick with blood.

                Scott rushed to help him stand. He had a tattoo of a spiral on his arm instead of the nemeton's rings. His eyes glowed golden. Scott froze, staring at Stiles like he was the one all wrong.

                "You were supposed to finally die!" Lydia screamed. She climbed to her feet between Stiles and the edge of a cliff. The moonlight shone over Lichtenberg marks along her left arm, her neck, and the left side of her face. They were old scars, healed over.

                Lydia lunged for Stiles, but Malia pushed her back. Malia had a spiral tattooed on her calf and an anchor on the back of her neck. An arrow planted itself in Malia's arm, giving Lydia a chance to circle them and retreat. Outlined against the trees, bow in hand and dark hair blowing in the breeze like a goddamn superhero, stood Allison Argent. She notched another arrow. This one took Malia in the thigh. Allison turned away. Lydia followed. Jackson Whittemore stepped into view and walked after them, all three as calm as if there were no wolves in the forest.

                "I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore," Stiles said. He stumbled forward to help Scott pull Malia to her feet. "I need to figure out if the universe has changed or if I've found my way into a different one."

                Scott and Malia shared a look.

                Scott said, "We'll take you to Peter."

                "Peter Hale?"

                Scott nodded.

                _Shit._ Stiles didn't say it aloud. If Scott was a beta and thought visiting Peter was their best option, Peter was probably their alpha. Stiles thought it best not to let them know he hated their alpha.


	2. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hale pack fights the hunters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could probably have specified on the original note that: Void=CANON Stiles and Dark=AU Stiles. In my defense, I posted it at 2am and was sleepy?

Stiles focused his stolen eye on the shadows surrounding the pack. Hunters might not have the glowing auras of the supernatural, but Lydia would. She could train with them and adopt their code, but she would always be a banshee. Hers was an eerie light, rising in grey and white wisps. Stiles found the tendrils of her aura wrapping around the trunk of a tree.

                "Gotcha," Stiles muttered.

                Scott set his hand against Stiles' back to calm him. Malia only snorted. She had no respect for any monster who sided with hunters. Her disdain never made the bullets hurt less. Neither did it bridge the chasm at their backs. Stiles eyed Lydia, but she didn't move.

                "You're trapped," Jackson called from a position near Lydia's. He liked to gloat. Stiles thought it made Jackson feel better about Peter's refusal to give him the bite.

                "Surrender and we'll spare you, Scott," Allison said. She stood some distance from the others and stepped into view with her bow drawn, aimed at Malia.

                "And the rest of us?" Stiles asked.

                Stiles and Malia were monsters according to the hunters' code. Malia's blue eyes signaled her guilt, no matter that it hadn't been her fault when they changed. Part of Stiles' problem was in his eye too, but he wouldn't survive its removal, assuming he survived Lydia.

                "You know we didn't do this," Scott said. "Peter only kills the responsible. We would never kill innocents."

                "Maybe you wouldn't, but what about your packmates?"

                Malia growled, eyes lighting with the blue that drew Allison's wrath.

                "It wounded me," Scott insisted, pulling up his shirt to reveal the gash through his stomach. "I think it was an alpha. We should be working together."

                Allison laughed at that. "You expect hunters to work with Hales?" Her laughter became a sneer. "If you lead me to Peter, I'll leave his daughter alive. How's that for working together?"

                Stiles said, "You weren't very good at cooperative games as a kid, were you?"

                "I guess that's the cost of moving around to hunt monsters," Allison conceded. "So what childhood damage does it take to put part of a demon in your face?"

                Stiles shrugged. "Same as you, Allison. I never want to feel helpless again."

                Lydia's aura moved. They always thought speaking distracted Stiles.

                Nothing could ever be distracting enough to pull his attention from Lydia Martin.

                Lydia preferred to fight at close range. She carried daggers laced with wolfsbane, and her handgun almost always remained strapped to her thigh. Once she had tried to shoot Stiles. He struck her with lightning. Instead of stopping her heart, it had left a scar over the left side of her body.

                She stopped when she saw he had turned toward her. He had never told her about her aura, and he liked to imagine she thought he was connected to her and could feel her presence. He liked it because he knew it would terrify and disgust her. She deserved that and worse.

                Hatred widened Lydia's eyes almost to the point of madness. "We don't have to talk to them, Allison. We already know they're guilty."

                Stiles rolled his eyes.

                "The only thing we're guilty of is taking justice," Malia said.

                "What you took was my aunt's life," Allison snarled.

                Malia hadn't even been with the pack when they killed Kate.

                Allison composed herself, breathing steadily in and out. "Last chance. Give up the alpha, or die protecting him."

                "Please choose die," Lydia added.

                Stiles asked, "Shouldn't you be able to hear if we're about to die?"

                Lydia shrieked with rage, but not power. She hurled one of her daggers at Malia, so Stiles guessed she'd learned something from last time. When Malia knocked it out of the air with an almost lazy kick, Lydia looked disappointed, so Stiles guessed she hadn't learned that much.

                Allison shot at Scott. He caught the arrow, but Allison had knocked and loosed another before the first reached him. Eventually, something would hit. Jackson stepped out of cover already firing. Stiles had a moment to be thankful it cost too much to put wolfsbane in every bullet before he realized Jackson wasn't aiming for the werewolf on Stiles' left or the werecoyote on his right.

                Stiles' leg collapsed under him. That would hurt to heal later. It hurt now. Stiles bared his teeth, though he couldn't growl like his packmates. He set a hand against the dirt. When he lifted his hand, the ground rose with it, forming a barricade between him and the hunters. Blood falling from the hole in his leg to the ground paid tribute, a sacrifice to grant Stiles power. Someday, the hunters would learn not to make him bleed.

                "Don't shoot the witch, dumbass," Lydia shouted.

                "Quiet," Allison hissed. "Something's coming."

                It wasn't Peter. Stiles would have felt his alpha approaching.

                "I think it's the bad guy," Stiles said. He pulled his hand from the barrier he built and checked his leg for an exit wound but found nothing. Stiles couldn't pull a pullet from his leg here, and he couldn't heal until he'd removed the bullet.

                "It's him," Malia confirmed, ducking behind Stiles' cover. "Can you heal?"

                Stiles shook his head.

                "Can you walk?"

                Stiles shrugged.

                "How are you his favorite?"

                Stiles smirked. "I can do this." He turned his demon eye to the woods and found the alpha's dark aura approaching from the south. He let blood from the hole in his leg pour out over his hand before setting it to the lightning bolt tattooed on his arm. Power lanced through Stiles and lightning struck the alpha.

                "It wasn't enough," Malia noted.

                The alpha would need hours at most, probably closer to minutes, to heal from the same wound that left Lydia in recovery for weeks and scarred for life.

                "No," Stiles admitted, "but it looked cool.

                "If you two are done flirting, I think it's time to run for our lives," Scott said, pulling Stiles to his feet.

                "We're not flirting," Stiles said as Malia mimed puking at the thought.

                Standing, Stiles could see Allison had turned toward the alpha. Its aura faded into the shadows, so Stiles couldn't see where it ended and the forest began. Stiles had never seen anything like it.

                "Look out!" Scott shouted. He and Malia had pulled ahead when Stiles paused to study the alpha.

                A tendril of white snaked into Stiles' view. Something had pulled his attention from Lydia Martin after all. She shrieked with glee.

                Stiles pulled all the ink he could into his forearms. He raised them as a shield before him.

                The blade cut him anyway. Lydia ducked down to pierce his unprotected hip and wrenched the blade up across his stomach and under his shield. Stiles faltered and fell to the sound of laughter.

                He redirected his ink to the wound. It was poisoned. He had never cast with poisoned blood before. He tried to heal. It should have hurt more in healing, but the pain never changed. He pushed outward instead, trying to strike at Lydia. He saw a flash of light. A crash like thunder right around his head fallowed it. Lydia didn't die.

                Stiles struggled to sit up, to see. He didn't know what his magic had done.

                Scott hovered over him. His aura was too bright, too fierce, tinged with red. His tattoo was gone, replaced by two bands wrapped around his arm. Lydia stood behind them, aura glowing white with power beyond anything Stiles had ever seen from a banshee. He had never realized how thin the wisps of her aura were until he saw the thick ropes that surrounded her now.

                People couldn't just change their auras. This was impossible.

                "Scott," Stiles grunted. He couldn't say more. Where was Malia?

                Lydia stepped forward, set a hand against Scott's shoulder. Scott didn't fight her off. He let her past him to set her hand against Stiles' cheek. Stiles snarled weakly.

                "It's okay, Stiles. It's me." Her voice sounded softer and gentler than Stiles had ever heard it, in contrast to the intensity of her banshee's aura. "What happened? There was a flash of lightning, and then you were... different, and injured."

                Stiles tried to laugh, but he was too weak.

                "Who did this to you?" Lydia asked with such sincerity that Stiles had to close his human eye in case it had deceived him.

                "You did," he whispered.


	3. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets the other world's Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian Bohen has said in an interview, I think, that Peter would have a spiral tattooed on the inside of his wrist if he had a tattoo. I struggled with that for at least ten minutes, so, anyway, I'm sorry, Ian (who will never see this apology).

While Stiles had never seen Peter's apartment downtown, he had always subconsciously imagined it was more upscale than Derek's usual hiding places. That Peter unironically lived in a network of tunnels beneath the forest almost convinced Stiles this had to be a joke. Then Stiles saw him.

                Peter leaned against the dirt wall with his arms crossed and head tilted. A spiral was tattooed on the right side of his neck. A series of jagged lines wrapped around one of his biceps. A hint of ink peeked past the v-neck of his shirt, but Stiles couldn't tell what it was. Peter studied Stiles openly, gaze lingering first on the fresh wounds on his arm and torso, then Stiles' eyes. Malia and Scott had stared at his eyes too. Nothing on his face hurt. The lightning hadn't reached so far.

                "You're not my Stiles," Peter noted. His blue eyes flashed red for a second as he said Stiles' name.

                Stiles said, "I think I'm in one of those stories where your whole life changes after you get struck by lightning." He just hadn't determined for sure _how_ his life had been changed.

                Peter didn't respond. He walked around Stiles, studying him further. When he'd satisfied his visual curiosity, he poked Stiles' arm. Stiles opened his mouth, but Peter grabbed his jaw in a one-handed vice.

                "Don't speak," Peter ordered. "I don't know what you are." His eyes narrowed. "Normally I'd rely on Stiles to tell me what he sees in you."

                Stiles saw how that might be a problem, but if the pack here detected differences in Stiles like he did in them, that made it more likely this was a parallel world. If changes had been made to his reality, Stiles should have changed along with it, even if something had preserved his memory.

                Peter's eyes glowed red. He leaned forward, staring directly into Stiles' eyes.

                "This will hurt," he warned before wrapping his fingers to the back of Stiles' neck and digging his claws in.

                It hurt.

                Peter and Stiles stood together in the white room with the nemeton. Go stones lay scattered on the tiles near the stump, though the board was gone. Peter walked a circuit around the stump. With one lingering look for the nemeton, Peter pulled his gaze to Stiles.

                "This is an interesting place to bring me. It protects your individual memories but lays bare more significant weaknesses."

                "I didn't make a choice," Stiles said.

                Spiders crawled among cracks in the nemeton's bark. Stiles didn't think Peter had seen them.

                "No, I don't suppose you could."

                Stiles said, "I know you brought me here to find out if I'm me and if you can trust me. I'll need your pack's help to get home, so just tell me what you need to see to believe me."

                As much as Stiles refused to trust this pack, especially with Peter as its alpha, he doubted his memories could do harm to his friends. Getting home was more important than keeping secrets about his past. Once he had plans in place to fight back if the pack betrayed him, Stiles would have to hide those. Since he didn't have any yet, he had nothing to hide.

                "I believe you, Stiles. I've seen your mind before. This may be different, but it's still you."

                "Why are we still here?"

                Peter answered with a smirk. "What do you think, Stiles?"

                "You believe I'm me, but that's not the same as knowing I'm not going to harm your pack."

                Peter nodded.

                "I can show you I care for Scott and Malia on my world, but I can't do the same for you." Stiles doubted sharing would convince Peter anyway. Peter was naturally manipulative, a liar and a traitor. Stiles couldn't prove his loyalty to someone like that. Instead, he needed to prove his capability. If Peter needed Stiles, he would work with him and let him live, just like he had while hunting Kate Argent.

                Peter said, "At least you're honest."

                "Even knowing what you need, I'm not sure how to give it to you," Stiles said. The easiest way to hide something from a werewolf was to say something true but not quite specific.

                Peter stepped forward and set a hand to Stiles' left cheek just below his eye. "The other you lost this eye to a demon, so when he killed it, he took its eye as replacement. Are you brave enough to show me _your_ demons?"

                Stiles stepped back. Peter couldn't know about the nogitsune, so what did he expect to find? "I need your help, but I don't trust you." If Stiles pretended to trust him so easily, it would only give him away.

                "You can't stop me," Peter said.

                On the stump, images of Stiles and the nogitsune bent over their game of go in an echo of Stiles' memories. Flies and fireflies circled them. Peter turned to study the image, and Stiles wondered if he could see what the nogitsune was.

                "Yes I can," Stiles said. He had before, with Scott and Lydia's help.

                Stiles and Peter replaced the old images. They knelt opposite each other on the nemeton's stump. The board between them belonged to the game of chess.

                A wide smile split Peter's face. "Interesting."

                The white room faded, replaced with the old stone and dirt of Peter's hideout. Scott and Malia waited, both crouched and ready to attack at Peter's word. Peter pulled his claws slowly from Stiles' neck.

                "He _is_ Stiles, but a different version of Stiles. I think we need him to get Stiles back."

                "So we're working with him?" Scott asked.

                "Until he gives us reason not to."

                Stiles squinted at him. "Your faith in me is truly inspiring, Peter."

                "He does sound like Stiles," Malia said, "but how do we get ours back?"

                "First we have to find out how we lost him," Peter said. He gripped Stiles by the back of his neck. "And don't worry. We will."


	4. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles learns more about the other world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some people were not pleased with the Stilinski's names as revealed in 6a, but I am using them both because I love them. Writing the sheriff before he had a name was terrible.

Stiles woke with a start. For a moment, he remembered only Lydia standing over him. But she wasn't the Lydia he knew. She was an ally here, as hard as it was to even look at her. He lay in a guest bed at her house. The pack had shared significant looks when Stiles asked why it had to be _her_ house. He guessed they hadn't found a way to explain his appearance, and he hadn't told them he could close the demon eye to make it look and function as a human one or that he could shift the ink of his tattoos to covered skin. He had been too tired after borrowing their broken nemeton's energy to heal his wounds.

                Fresh clothes hung over the back of the chair. Stiles' clothes has been ruined in the attack; he wore only his boxers to sleep. The new garments hung loosely off his body, and he wondered if they belonged to this world's Stiles or someone else.

                Outside the door, Malia sat on the floor of the hall reading something with pictures of terrible monsters. A bestiary, probably. She stood.

                "Were you there all night?" Stiles asked.

                "We took turns. Come on. Deaton wants to see you." Malia closed the book without marking her place.

                "You have a Deaton?" 

                "You don't?"

                Stiles took a deep breath to steady himself. This girl had Malia's face, name, and directness. She did not have Malia's memories. Stiles would have to take care what he let slip in the future. Scott was alpha of this pack, so Deaton's fate should be worth sympathy. Stiles had gotten lucky.  

                Stiles said, "He died protecting Scott."

                Malia left the book behind on a shelf. "You don't sound very sad."

                "I was never close to Deaton, and he refused to train me."

                "So you hold a grudge."

                Stiles laughed. "Our pack symbol is a spiral."

                Malia didn't quite frown, but her eyebrows pulled in. She asked, "Am I in your world?"

                "You're in my pack."

                She smiled at that. "With Scott, right?"

                "And Cora, Derek, and Peter."

                Her mouth twisted at Peter's name.

                Stiles asked, "He's not dead here, is he?" Stiles hadn't seen Peter yet or heard anyone mention him.

                Malia shook her head. "He's complicated. Sometimes he's evil, and I can't tell if he's trying to be better."

                Stiles snorted. "I get called evil all the time. Did Peter bother to earn it?"

                "Did you?" she asked sincerely when Stiles would have expected flippancy or derision.

                "I never struck first, but I struck hard and fast." He felt the spiral tattoo on his back spin. Even though he controlled the ink, sometimes his emotions got away with it.

                "Have you killed anyone?"

                "Yes, and so have you," Stiles said. She didn't have to flash her pretty blue eyes for him to see them.

                Malia nodded without asking how he knew.

                A car pulled up in front of the house. Stiles saw the thick mist of Lydia's aura pushing out of the car before she rolled down a window and motioned for them to get in.

                "My dad has my car," Malia explained. "They're driving around town looking for Quinn."

                "Who?"

                "The girl we were looking for in the woods when you showed up."

                Stiles shrugged. He'd never heard of her.

                As he approached the car, his shoulders tensed. Lydia had helped him last night and let him stay in her house, but she was still Lydia.

                "She won't hurt you," Malia promised.

                "It'll just take some getting used to," Stiles said.

                They climbed into the back seat, and Lydia drove them in silence. Hopefully, Deaton would know how to get Stiles home. If not, Stiles could worry about the enemies he had to ally with here, then.

                At the clinic, Deaton waited for Stiles to break the ash line and open the gate. Without a demon eye, Stiles guessed little tests were the only way to be sure of anyone. Scott had reached the clinic ahead of them, and Malia and Lydia joined him to listen in on Stiles' conversation with Deaton. He began by describing what had happened on his own world.

                "Is there any chance I caused it?" Stiles asked. "I felt the blood was tainted but used it anyway."

                Deaton considered a moment before answering. "It would take an unimaginable amount of power to travel between parallel universes on a spell. I've never heard of it working."

                Crossing his arms, Stiles said, "So you have no idea what happened."

                "I don't," Deaton confirmed. "But we can start with the shadow aura you described. A supernatural creature may be able to achieve what spell power cannot."

                "Do you know of anything with an aura like that?" Stiles asked.

                Deaton said, "I'll look into it."

                Stiles nodded. He hadn't expected more. If they were lucky, something would be in the pack bestiary. More likely, Deaton would have to reach out to contacts he kept to himself because sharing them would put everyone involved in more danger. That was the way with druids and the reason Peter was short an emissary.

                Deaton said, "For now, we should prepare for you to be here a while. You may not have classes, but many people around town will recognize you and wonder—"

                He cut off as Stiles pulled his ink out of view and closed his demon eye. It still looked open. It looked human. It functioned as a human eye too, meaning he lost his ability to view auras for as long as he kept it closed.

                "I can only see as well from this eye as any human would this way, but very few can detect it," he explained.

                "Then I leave the rest to Scott," Deaton said.

                Scott stepped forward and set a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "We have to tell your dad what happened."

                Stiles felt his heart fall to his feet and leap to his throat in a single moment. "My dad's alive?"

                Scott responded, but Stiles didn't hear him.

                His dad was alive.

                They took him to a house that looked exactly like the one Stiles grew up in. He sat on a couch exactly like the one he gave up along with the house. He knew that when the other guy's dad walked through the door, he would look exactly as Stiles' dad used to.

_He's not_ my _dad,_ Stiles reminded himself. _He's the other guy's dad._

                "He'll be here soon," Scott assured him.

                Stiles wondered if his heartbeat or scent gave him away. Scott and Malia were so similar to their counterparts in Stiles' pack that he kept forgetting they were strangers. Since Lydia hadn't come into the house, Stiles had too few reminders. He needed to control himself.

                The door opened. Stiles stood even before Noah Stilinski came into view and lunged forward once he had. He wrapped his arms around his father— _not my father_ —and buried his face into his shoulder to hide his tears.

                "It's okay, son." After a moment he asked, "What happened to you?"

                Stiles shuddered hearing his father's voice. He took a deep breath and stepped back. He had to hold the other guy's father at arms' length to keep him from pulling Stiles in for another hug after seeing his tear-streaked face.

                "I'm not your son," Stiles said. He opened his demon eye and let his tattoos surge back into place.

                "What the hell?" Noah sounded more fed-up than scared, which Stiles supposed was good.

                "I think I'm another version of your son, but we've traded places. He's in my world, and I'm here with you."

                Pinching the bridge of his nose, Noah asked, "You _think?"_

                "I've never traded places with an alternate version of myself, so I don't know how it's supposed to feel." He paused, studying a man not nearly distraught enough. "You don't believe me. My eye's all scary, and there are magic tattoos covering my face and arms. I know your son doesn't have any of that."

                "Your face and voice haven't changed, and you said yourself, you don't know what happened. You've been possessed before, and who knows how much that can change you."

                "Seriously? Scott is alpha here, but in my pack he's still a beta. Peter Hale is our alpha. If I was your Stiles, but something strange had happened to me, why would my memories be so different?" Stiles felt the demon eye burn hotter with his anger.

                "Really? Peter Hale?" His mouth twisted with distaste at having to hold that name.

                Stiles knew he needed to stay cool, but Peter had taken him in after his father died. Peter had changed Scott and Stiles' lives the night he bit Scott in the woods, but he'd protected them from every threat he opened their eyes to. Noah had never liked Peter, but he'd come to understand what Peter meant to his son as his alpha. Stiles stepped back from Noah.

                "Yes, Peter," he snarled. "He's like family to me. I owe him my life. I owe him everything."

                Noah looked Stiles over, head to toe, raging demon eye to black-inked tattoos. He straightened his back, leaning away from Stiles, as he looked. This was not his son. Stiles wondered if Noah saw it in more than his eye and skin.

                "Do you believe me now?" Bitterness sharpened Stiles' voice.

                "Almost. What's your first name?" So he doubted Stiles was Stiles at all.

                "Mieczysław."

                Noah nodded slowly. "How do we trade you back?"

                "I don't know yet."

                Noah squared his shoulders. "Just one more question then. On your world, what happened to me?"

                Stiles looked away. "What makes you think anything did?"

                "You were crying, Stiles."

                Stiles gritted his teeth against the memory. It was a long moment before he could answer, "You were murdered by Lydia Martin."


	5. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Peter visit the nemeton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, this chapter is a little longer!

Stiles clicked through files, trying not to move much as he did. Scott had bandaged the bite on his arm and the lightning burns on his back. It hurt to move. He had tried sleeping, but lying down hurt. Eventually Peter had dropped Stiles in front of a laptop loaded with bestiaries and spell books, but Stiles barely knew where to look. This portion of their lair almost looked like a normal library, with electric lights, reading chairs, desks, and shelves and shelves of books.

                Derek and Cora had arrived while Scott saw to Stiles' wounds. Stacks of books surrounded Derek's desk, and Derek poured through them, flipping pages like he was part of a studying montage. Cora sat in an armchair with her feet on an ottoman, staring at Stiles like he'd done a poor job of replacing a member of her family.

                Once the three of them were settled, Peter had taken Scott and Malia back out. When Stiles asked why, he had smirked and said he trusted Stiles as much as Stiles trusted him. It wasn't an answer, but Stiles couldn't think of a counter argument.

                "Do you have any magic?" Derek asked.

                "No." Stiles rubbed at his chest. The darkness was worse, somehow, despite his nemeton being in another universe. He was hungry too, but that was unrelated. "I'm bound to the nemeton, and that's magic."

                "Bound how?"

                Stiles turned away from a useless article on spider webs built in empowered trees to look at Derek. For his part, Derek scowled at Stiles for a moment before raising his eyebrows to ask where his answer was. Seeing his grumpy face reminded Stiles of how much he had already missed Derek back home.

                "I sacrificed myself to it," Stiles said.

                Derek furrowed his brows. "I don't know what that means. Sacrifices usually end up dead."

                "I drowned myself in a tub of ice water to take the place of my father among a darach's sacrifices, allowing us to find the nemeton and save our parents."

                "Did you die?"

                Stiles half-shrugged and winced. "We were down for sixteen hours. No one resuscitated us, but we woke up. It left a darkness around our hearts and put us in bardo." Stiles didn't like remembering that. Even in retrospect, he wasn't sure how much had been bardo and how much the nogitsune.

                "Who's 'us'?" Cora asked.

                "Me, Scott, and Allison."

                Both of them stared in wide-eyed silence for a long moment before Derek managed to ask, "Allison _Argent_?"

                Stiles nodded. "I guess you guys are enemies, but in my world, Allison died protecting us."

                Derek closed his book and crossed the room to stand beside Stiles. "What about Lydia Martin?"

                "She's one of the most important people in the world to me." Also enemies here, he'd noticed, but he hoped to avoid the hunters during his stay.

                Cora had stopped staring to study her nails with a dedicated intensity.

                Stiles said, "I know she was trying to kill me when I got here, or trying to kill the other me before he left here."

                Derek set a hand on Stiles' shoulder, then frowned at his own hand a moment. "It's more than that," he said in such a gentle voice Stiles knew he didn't want whatever came next. "She killed your father."

                Stiles stared. Derek's eyes were hazel and gentle. He kept his hand on Stiles' shoulder and squeezed gently.

                "Not _my_ father," Stiles whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't need to mourn. It wasn't his father. But the other version of himself...

                Stiles said, "I've been trying to kill her too, right? If she killed my—" He couldn't say it. "She wasn't just trying to kill me; we're trying to kill each other."

                Derek nodded. He pulled Stiles forward into a hug. Derek gave good hugs, warm and gentle but strong. It hardly even hurt Stiles' back. "I know you're not the Stiles I know, and I know his father isn't the one you know. But if we can't get you home, I'm sorry."

                Stiles couldn't deal with this. He floundered for a distraction. "At first you were like the Derek I know: grumpy and quiet. But hugging is new."

                Derek chuckled.

                "Laughing is new too."

                "We're a tactile pack," Derek explained. "We've amplified our pack bonds, so touch provides extra comfort. It's not there with you because you're not you, but touching is habit."

                "You're a nerd."

                Derek did a very Derek thing with his eyebrows. Stiles snorted. Derek must have thought it a sign he'd sufficiently comforted Stiles because he returned to his books.

                Cora shrugged when Stiles looked at her and resumed her staring.

                Stiles said, "I'm guessing the demon eye looks a lot different because Peter didn't mention anything else different about our faces."

                "The binding is sometimes on his face too, but he can move it," Cora said with an offhand shrug.

                "What?"

                Cora smirked. Derek raised his eyebrows at her until she sighed, rolled her eyes, and said, "You can't just attach part of a demon to a human unless you want the human to become a demon. You use a binding to lock the demonness inside the demon parts and give the human control. Stiles' looks like a tattoo."

                "You also have a tattoo," Stiles pointed out, also literally pointing at a line spiraling around her forearm.

                "We all have that one." She shrugged. "Stiles has way more. I'm not even sure all of them are magic."

                "They are," Derek said without looking up.

                Cora gave him a glare he never saw.

                "Stiles hates tattoos," Derek continued.

                "Can confirm, hate tattoos," Stiles said.

                Derek said, "I'm always right. Get back to work. You too, Cora."

                "That's a waste of time." Cora grimaced at the short stack of books Derek had casually built near her earlier.

                Derek's eyebrows plummeted into a glower.

                Cora remained undeterred. "You don't know what you're looking for."

                "Anything about traveling between universes," Derek said, pointing to a stack of books to his left. He shifted to point at a different stack. "Magic users going missing or being replaced. Aura reading and interpretations, though Stiles never described the shifters' auras for me. A bunch of bestiaries written by sour old hunters."

                Cora cut in, "You're proving me right."

                Stiles tapped his finger against the laptop Peter had left him with. "Cora has a point. Maybe instead of looking for anything that can move between worlds, we should find a similarity between what happened to each of me. It might give us a better starting place, if nothing else."

                "None of us was there on this side," Derek pointed out.

                "Which means we get to wait for the others to—crap," Cora finished as Peter returned with Scott and Malia.

                "It's always nice to know you're happy to see me," Peter said. He walked over to tousle Cora's hair with a laugh.

                She glared but didn't complain aloud.

                Derek stood and stretched his back. "Stiles thinks we should compare events from both sides to find a link."

                Peter nodded. "Scott," he said, motioning for Scott to follow. He walked to Stiles' side. "It will be faster if I compare them directly." He set his hand to the back of Stiles' neck.

                Stiles grimaced. "You're not wrong."

                "That's not permission," Peter noted. He watched Stiles, waiting and still. Stiles looked into his blue eyes hoping to find them free of madness or rage. They were just eyes; Stiles couldn't see anything. He must have hesitated too long because Peter said, "We can try the slow way first." He pulled his hand back.

                Stiles caught Peter by the wrist and set Peter's claws against his neck. "Just get it over with." He needed to get home. Peter was his best bet, and he didn't want to waste time.

                Peter's claws sunk into the wounds he'd left earlier. Stiles' memory of the night flashed through his mind, intercut with Scott's. Stiles stood by the nemeton or a cliff. Spiders crawled in a spiral, and Allison drew her bow. An indistinct form leapt out and bit Stiles' arm, and Lydia sliced open Stiles' gut. Lightning struck. Thunder crashed. Stiles and Scott looked at each other, both knowing the other was changed.

                Stiles came to himself panting. Peter supported his weight until Stiles recovered.

                "You may not have his advantages, but you're resilient," Peter said. "You should have made me wait."

                "Now you tell me." Stiles dropped into his chair.

                "I'm not patient." Peter grabbed Stiles' arm and ripped off the bandage to study the bite. It looked like human tooth marks, except the canines bit significantly deeper than the other teeth. The surrounding skin was bruised purple.

                "Do you know what it was?" Stiles asked.

                Peter frowned. His nostrils flared. "Probably a shapeshifter. You didn't get a good look at it."

                "Do we have a database of shifter bites or something? It wasn't an alpha, right? I don't want whatever it had."

                "Stop," Peter snapped. "One question at a time. I had to go through this with the other you too. We don't have anything comprehensive. You still smell human to me, but I think it was targeting you."

                "Me specifically or me because of my pack?"

                Peter grinned, a vicious baring of teeth. "There's more in you than an old tree's roots."

                "You poked around." Stiles was afraid to say more until he knew what Peter meant.

                "You left yourself open."

                Scott asked, "What are you talking about? I didn't see anything but a stump and lightning."

                Peter patted Stiles' cheek. "Nothing someone like him can use, though I think experience with the void helped him survive." So he _had_ recognized a nogitsune.

                "Void?" Derek asked, digging through his stack of bestiaries.

                "He said that in nerd voice," Cora said.

                Peter smirked, watching his nephew. For an impatient man, he seemed content to wait.

                "I'm the nerd one where I come from, one of the nerd ones" Stiles said. Mason had done a lot of the knowledge lifting of late. Lydia always had. "This is weird."

                "You're a nerd here too," Malia assured him. "The laptop you've been using is yours. You compiled everything on it yourself, except for what you got from Peter."

                "Of course it is." At least Other Stiles had the sense to make an electronic database so he could keyword search.

                Derek cut in, "Ravens are trickster spirits. They feed the void like foxes but travel in groups. They may have black or indistinct auras, even to the practiced eye. Did Stiles ever describe them to you?"

                The others shook their heads.

                Derek continued, "I'm not as good as he is, but they always looked blurry to me. Ravens would also have talons and no fangs."

                Peter said, "It's a good theory—"

                "Hypothesis until it's tested," Stiles corrected.

                Peter continued, "It explains most of what's bothered us about them. But how do we test it, and how does that help Stiles?"

                Stiles couldn't help saying, "That's two questions."          

                "As alpha, I can do what I want. Including crushing every bone in your hand."

                Stiles didn't think he'd annoyed Peter enough for more than an idle threat but kept his mouth shut just in case.

                "Damn," Derek muttered. "A nemeton generally protects a town from wereravens. It acts as a scarecrow to drive them back even though it's a beacon to other creatures. That's why ravens are considered ill omens."

                "Why isn't our nemeton keeping them away?" Cora asked.

                "We need to check the nemeton," Peter decided.

                "You mean you guys normally have a healthy nemeton?" Stiles asked. He'd assumed they had a stump too.

                Malia asked, "You don't?"

                Stiles shook his head.

                Peter said, "Stiles, I want you to come with me."

                "You want me to walk alone with you through the woods at night?"

                "It's after noon, and this is my pack, not yours. If I wanted to kill and eat you, they'd get the oven started."

                "Fair point." Stiles stood. He hadn't realized how long he'd been at the computer. "But don't think I didn't noticed Scott's eyes are gold, so he would just turn around and studiously not look."

                Scott tilted his head. "I can't tell if I'm supposed to be offended."

                "You are," Cora said.

                "Maybe Stiles thinks it's cute," Malia said. "He seems amused."

                Cora nodded. "Makes you wonder what his Scott is like."

                Malia shook her head. "Not really."

                Stiles opened his mouth to tell them his Scott was a true alpha but clamped it shut again. He shook his head and said, "He's a true alpha." There was no reason to hide it. This pack would never meet his, and making them trust him could be vital to keeping their help. Besides, Peter had been in his mind twice already; there was no telling what he knew.

                "How?" Scott asked. "Peter says I'm supposed to be, but I'm just me."

                "I don't know," Stiles said. "You didn't join Peter's pack in my world. Honestly, you've already become a true alpha, and we still don't know all of what that means."

                "And what happened to me?" Peter asked.

                "Nothing pleasant. I think we'd be better off visiting your tree."

                Peter nodded, but his eyes narrowed. "Another time then."

                He set a hand against Stiles' shoulder and steered him out, motioning for the others to stay behind. Stiles guessed Peter meant for 'another time' to come sooner rather than later. He wondered if honesty would serve him well after all.

Peter saved his questions until he had Stiles alone in the woods. The pack's secret lair turned out to be only a half hour walk from the magic tree itself. Peter sat among the massive tree's roots and motioned for Stiles to join him. It looked nothing like the stump back home. This nemeton had never been cut down. Stiles wondered how many of the differences between universes stemmed from that single change.

                "How did I die?" Peter asked.

                Stiles hesitated. He ran his fingers along the nemeton's rough bark, dappled with light filtering through the leaves of a tree that didn't exist anymore on Stiles' world.

                Peter caught Stiles' hand in his own. "Stiles, I am your only chance of getting home, and you are the only clue I have to finding my Stiles again. I expect you to respect that I am this pack's alpha even though I am not yours."

                "I helped catch you on fire, and once you were weakened, Derek slashed open your throat."

                "Was that so hard?" Peter asked.

                "I sort of worried you'd freak out and slash open _my_ throat."

                "I don't need to. How did I come back?"

                Stiles jumped. "How did you know you came back?"

                Peter raised an eyebrow, smirking.

                "Fine. You bit Lydia, and your ghost or whatever forced her to bring you back using some ritual with Derek and the full moon."

                Peter nodded like that made perfect sense. "I didn't have to bite Lydia here. I planned to use the nemeton to bring me back if I died killing Kate Argent."

                "Did you? Die?"

                "No. You and Derek were both on my side."

                Peter seemed reasonable, but so had the Peter on Stiles' world until he turned on Scott. Stiles wondered if he and Scott had joined Peter's killing spree here rather than resisting. He wondered if Peter had still killed his niece Laura. If he drilled his madness into Meredith's head and would eventually find a stranger ordering his pack's death in his honor.

                "How do we check if the nemeton is okay?" Stiles asked.

                "We're doing it now. Feel its energy the way you feel its bark. Sitting against the trunk with your eyes closed is the easiest way."

                Stiles held his eyes closed for at least four seconds before saying, "I don't think I feel anything."

                "You don't need powers to feel it. Try meditating—"

                "Sitting still and not thinking is not my thing."

                "I know, Stiles. Try anyway. Knowing this could save your life."

                Stiles grimaced at him but leaned against the nemeton's trunk, shifting until he found a comfortable position. "Do you have any meditation tips?"

                "Yes, but if you mention irony, I'm going to help you bond with the tree by offering it your blood. Now, picture a flame in your mind. Feed every thought and emotion into the flame until nothing remains."

                Stiles didn't mention how Peter had been burned nearly to death, three times in Stiles' world. He fed the thought into the flame. New thoughts kept popping up. He fed them into the flame only for more to find him. He didn't think he'd ever be good at meditating. He fed that thought to the flame. The flame never grew, but it consumed all he offered.

                Something sour twisted at Stiles' gut. His arms ached. Pain like a tube running under the skin spread from his wrist and up his forearm.

                "The tree is hurt," Stiles said. "How?"

                He opened his eyes and saw Peter nod in satisfaction. "How does it feel?" Peter asked.

                "Like something being rammed up my arm."

                Peter stood and climbed among the branches. After a moment, Stiles followed. If he got stuck, Peter could help him down. Or tell him helping himself would build character. As he climbed, Peter paused periodically to look around with his eyes glowing red. The higher they moved, the sharper the sting in Stiles' arm became. He felt them approach and knew even before Peter motioned him over when they found what they needed.

                Someone had drilled a hole into the nemeton's branch and filled it with wolfsbane and mistletoe. Stiles helped Peter dig the plants out but knew it would take much longer to heal.

                "Who did this?" Stiles asked.

                Peter didn't answer. He used the claws of one hand to slash open the palm of his other. His blood fell into the hole in the nemeton's branch. His palm healed as soon as he finished. He wiped the remaining blood off his hand onto the nearby leaves.

                "We should go. That's all we can do for now," Peter said. He motioned for Stiles to climb down first. Stiles reached the ground without having to ask for help.

                "I knew you'd come." The voice belonged to an unfamiliar man waiting at the base of the nemeton. He was tall and muscular, but it was a sense of overwhelming power that made him intimidating. Peter leapt the remaining distance to the ground, but not before the man pinned Stiles against the nemeton with black talons to Stiles' throat.

                "Why are you human?" the raven asked as his eyes glowed purple.

                "That doesn't make any sense." Stiles pretended not to be terrified. "I'm human because I've always been human."

                The raven shook his head and pressed his talons closer to Stiles' throat when Peter inched forward. "You are void. You should be void. Why are you human?"

                "I cast it out." Stiles forced the words through clenched teeth. This wasn't the first time someone had called him void despite the nogitsune's absence. At least he'd gotten to punch Theo.

                The raven laughed. "You cast out a beast. The void is forever. I can make you stronger if you embrace it."

                "No," Stiles spat. "I don't want anything from you."

                The raven tilted his head, studying him through glowing purple eyes. "Pity." He pulled his talons through Stiles' neck. The man transformed into a raven. Stiles fell. He would have watched the raven fly away, but he had fallen facedown. He watched his blood pool among the nemeton's roots and run along its bark.

                The world spun. Peter leaned over Stiles, pressing down against his neck, speaking. "...choose. Ink, bite, or sacrifice? I can choose for you if you can't."

                Stiles tried to speak. He tried to count blinks. He tried to move his hands. They moved on their own, scrambling, bouncing, reaching to hold his throat together.

                "Damnit, Stiles."

                Ink, bite, sacrifice. Stiles closed his hands into fists. He shook with the effort not to claw at his throat. He loosed the index finger from each fist. Peter's fingers brushed along one of Stiles' hands.

                "You'll be part of my pack," Peter said. "Not a visitor. You'll be mine."

                Stiles couldn't see Peter as he said it. Everything had gone dark.


	6. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles returns to the nemeton.

Noah could only stay for lunch before returning to work. Stiles hugged him for too long, but no one said anything about it. When he had gone, the others seemed unsure what to say.

                "I want to go back to the nemeton," Stiles said.

                Scott nodded. "It'll be a little longer before Mason gets here to pick us up."

                "Who is Mason?"

                "A human member of our pack."

                "Why are we waiting for him when Lydia is still parked out front?" He could see her car through the window, though he'd closed his stolen eye again and couldn't see her aura.

                Scott took a slow breath before answering, "We thought you would be more comfortable if she kept her distance."

                Keeping her distance would have meant leaving. If she'd stayed, it was because she had to, because she couldn't see the road past her tears well enough to drive.

                Stiles frowned at them. "I know she's not the same." Even her face was different since she didn't have the scars, though Stiles could remember the years before he'd scarred Lydia well enough.

                "We're just trying to make sure everyone's okay," Scott insisted.

                "If she wanted me dead, I would be because she's the most powerful banshee I've ever seen. So maybe one of you should tell her she doesn't need to cry. I'm willing to play nice as long as it takes to get me home. I think I'd do a lot better with her help than without it." Even on his world, Lydia was even smarter than she was hateful. This Lydia had the added advantage of powers that worked, so, assuming she believed saving her Stiles meant keeping this Stiles alive, she could use her visions to protect him.

                "I'm not going to say it like that," Scott said, but he hurried past Stiles to join Lydia in her car.

                Stiles dropped back onto the couch to wait.

                Malia said, "Have you seen many banshees?"

                "No, but I'm still pretty sure she could crush my skull with her voice."

                "Yes, she could." She crossed her arms, studying Stiles. "What can you do?"

                Stiles shrugged. "Depends what I have to work with."

                "I can tell you're keeping things from us."

                "Not like I was subtle about it." They were temporary allies, not pack.

                Malia frowned at him. "Are you sure you can handle yourself around Lydia?"

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "I do it all the time. We've been classmates pretty much our whole lives." Graduating had been a blessing more because he didn't have to be nice to Lydia than because he got to stay home from school. Still, he was hardly out of practice.

                Scott and Lydia stepped into the room. He had an arm around her shoulders. With Stiles' demon eye closed, Lydia looked delicate and sad. She had none of the frenzied rage of the Lydia he knew.

                "Scott says you want to go to the nemeton, but not why," Lydia said, voice steady despite the telltale blotches of color around her eyes and cheeks.

                "I sort of owe it a favor for healing me. Besides, it was where I appeared here. Maybe there will be something worth seeing."

                "You owe a tree." Lydia raised an eyebrow.

                "There is no part of me that believes you don't realize a nemeton usually demands offerings or sacrifice." Stiles waved his hand around to drive the point home. Just because she was Lydia didn't mean she had to pretend to be dumb.

                "Is there a tree banker who keeps track?" Lydia asked, almost coyly.

                Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. She was pretending to be _funny_ , not dumb. Great. "I take it back. I can't deal with any of this world."

                "We'll send you home as soon as we know how," Lydia promised.

                "I was worried because it seemed like you were really close to him, but I get the feeling you don't like me very much," Stiles said.

                Lydia shrugged one shoulder. She turned and walked with Scott to the car.

                Malia said, "I don't get it. The words you pick aren't that different from his, but the way you say them it's like everything has to be an attack, like if you don't strike first, you'll be struck down."

                "Are you saying I was mean to Lydia just now? Because I was trying at least a little hard to be tolerable."

                Malia frowned. "See, that was defensive. We're trying to help you."

                "You're trying to help yourselves," he corrected. Maybe they would help him too, but their first priority was the other guy.

                "Your tattoos move when you're annoyed." Malia pointed to his uncovered arms. "Do you want longer sleeves so they don't slip out?"

                "I'm fine. Let's go." He could worry about clothes later. For now, he pulled his ink to the skin on his back.

                Lydia had the car running and set off as soon as Stiles and Malia had climbed into the back seat. Even considering Lydia lived near the edge of town, the drive from her house to the woods wasn't long enough. Where Stiles expected new developments and parks, he saw wilderness and abandoned buildings decaying into rubble. Stiles opened his demon eye for a better view.

                "This town is dying," he said. "Even if it hasn't grown back, your nemeton should be doing something about that."

                "What is your nemeton like?" Scott asked.

                "It's a tree, not a stump. It's not as angry since no one ever chopped it down, but no nemeton has a gentle energy."

                Malia asked, "How is a tree angry?"

                Stiles ran a hand through his hair. "I use a lot of metaphors and technically inaccurate descriptions to express magic. I don't know if there's a better was to say it. Your nemeton was cut down, and now someone has to pay for that. It's not because the tree has feelings. That's just how it works. But personifying things is human nature, and the tree's energy still behaves as an angry human's might."

                Malia looked unconvinced but moved on. "Why is your eye like that?"

                "It's from a demon."

                "What kind of demon?"

                Stiles scowled at her. "A dead one."

                Lydia slammed on the breaks and swerved onto the shoulder. "If you can't share something because of me, say so. If you are hiding things from us that could be important or dangerous just for the sake of hiding it, we won't be so considerate."

                Stiles studied Lydia, though she watched him in the rear view mirror with her face turned away from him. "That's the Lydia I know," he said, feeling the bitter sneer at his lips. "It called itself a nightmare. It sewed fear into its victims' minds and fed off the pain it caused."

                Malia asked, "Did you kill it?"

                "Yes. Demons can survive by rejuvenating a body part within a host, so if something could find a way past the binding I used to seal it, technically it could be revived by taking over my body."

                Lydia said, "That seems important," in clipped tones.

                "My binding is written so that if I lose control, the demon and I will both be killed instantly. I can't share every important thing I've ever known in a matter of hours, and I have no way right now to know what's relevant. That's why I want to visit the nemeton. I need to start figuring things out, so I can get home."

                Malia added, "And so we can get our Stiles back."

                Stiles said, "You mean get rid of me."

                "That too," Malia confirmed.

                Lydia resumed driving. She watched the road but spoke to Stiles. "Since you can't gauge anything's relevance yet, trust us. Trust Scott. Answer what we know to ask with what you can give. If I'm a problem, I can leave, but I swear I am not your enemy here."

                Stiles rubbed at his neck. He couldn't see them, but he felt the scars there from Peter's repeated access to his memories. "I guess if I'm uncooperative, Scott can just take what he wants from me anyway."

                Scott asked, "Does that mean you'll work with us?"

                "Within reason," Stiles promised. "I'll try telling you why when you ask for something I don't want to share. Is that fair?"

                "For now," Scott agreed.

                Stiles grimaced. "Your demands here are based on the assumption that we're allies, and that goes both ways. So tell me, where is Peter Hale?"

                Silence answered.

                "Well?"

                "I don't know," Scott admitted as Malia asked, "Why?"

                "I already told you he's my alpha," Stiles said.

                Scott said, "I guess Peter's different there."

                Stiles shrugged even though Scott couldn't see it. "Couldn't say. Haven't met yours. What about Derek or Cora? Or Allison and Jackson because I'd rather they not shoot me in a world with a broken nemeton."

                "No one's shooting you," Malia said, "or at least none of them."

                Stiles narrowed his eyes at her.

                Scott explained for her, "Jackson, Cora, and Derek have all moved out of town. Allison... she was killed by the nogitsune."

                Stiles jerked upright and managed to smack his head. "There's a nogitsune here?"

                "No," Malia made a placating gesture.

                Scott added, "We imprisoned it."

                "Where? If it's at the nemeton—"

                "It's not," Scott cut in. "It's safe. Deaton took care of it."

                "I don't like void monsters," Stiles said.

                "I don't think anyone likes void monsters," Malia said.

                Stiles brushed his fingertips against his cheekbone. "The nightmare was void. It's energy doesn't fit well with mine, and that makes it hard for me to counter any other void."

                "Then why do you keep its eye?" Malia asked.

                "Spite and power." Stiles bit off the words though they were rancid on his tongue.

                "What kind of power do you have?" She had asked this before, and Stiles saw in the narrowing of her eyes that she wouldn't let him brush her off again since Lydia had ordered him to trust them.

                "Depends how much I'm bleeding." He shrugged and continued before Malia could accuse him of obfuscating again. "I use mostly blood magic. It's like diet sacrifice. Nothing has to die. The more I bleed, the more fuel I have for magic, right up until I pass out from blood loss. My tattoos help too." Even the binding that allowed him to control his eye was technically blood magic.

                Scott turned around in his seat to ask, "How did you learn blood magic?"

                "Well, Scottie, I was bleeding, and then I was like screw this and made the bleeding into magic. Then I fainted."

                "You said 'mostly,'" Lydia pointed out.

                Scott and Malia had been ready to accept his explanation because it had been true. He would have to be careful to avoid lying to them without his secret modifiers standing out to her. Just because she sided with the wolves here didn't mean she wasn't the same person. Lydia was a genius in every sense he knew of the word.

                "I can tap the nightmare's powers a little bit too. I use the eye to see auras and spells, but it's also like having a demon's essence stored in my face. If I let too much out, it can take over, and we both die."

                "You chose that voluntarily?" Lydia asked.

                "I may have acted just a little rashly in the heat of the moment, but it's proven useful." Stiles had acted more than rashly, joining the demon's essence with his own as Peter screamed for him to stop. They'd cleared out the pack so Stiles could tattoo his own face in the mirror, scrambling to keep the demon under control. Peter's little vial of pack ink couldn't write a binding. It wouldn't know the difference between separate entities in Stiles' body. Stiles had to write it himself with no formal training and his own blood dripping down his face as the demon bored its way through him.

                "You're _sure_ it can't control you?" Malia asked.

                "Of course."

                Scott said, "We didn't know at first when our Stiles was possessed. Is there anything we should look out for in case the demon does take control?"

                "Possessed by what?"

                "You first," Scott said.

                "The demon won't be able to close its eye. My human eye can only look scary and fiery if the demon spreads to it. My tattoos will probably break. Also, I'll be dead. Your turn."

                "He was possessed by the nogitsune."

                Stiles surged forward, activating the child lock on his seatbelt. "I thought you said you beat it and had Deaton lock it away."

                "We did," Scott said.

                Stiles looked back and forth from Scott to Malia. The only explanation she offered was a shrug. Scott and Lydia watched the road ahead.

                In a weak voice, Stiles asked, "You _saved_ the host?"

                They had discovered a dormant nogitsune in his world, probably the same one that woke here. Stiles and Derek had scoured every source for a way to kill it and found that keeping it dormant was the best they could ever hope for. The stories they'd found of nogitsune... Stiles shuddered remembering them. If the nightmare was a void demon, the nogitsune may as well be a god. He had never seen mention of a host surviving. Never.

                Scott nodded. "We almost couldn't, but I wasn't about to watch another friend die." He said it like a decision he could make, like he'd faced nothing stronger than a lost omega.

                "How old was it?" Stiles asked. Maybe it was a different fox, younger, weaker.

                "A thousand years old. That's why we couldn't kill it, just lock it away."

                Lydia pulled over and parked. "We'll have to walk from here," she said like Scott hadn't just revealed their pack had the power to topple gods on a whim. "It's not far."

                Stiles stared into the woods, pulling his mind away from nogitsune. The nemeton blazed with a dark energy, calling on him to repay his debt, the whole world's debt. Its influence snaked away, feeding the forest and strangling the town. Stiles should have seen it sooner. He saw a ring of darkness around Scott's heart beating in time to the pulse of the nemeton's power.

                "It looks like I'll have to do more than bleed a little and pour some wine on the stump," Stiles said.

                Compared to this, he had a generous and loving nemeton. He might have been too tired to notice last night. Even the anger he'd felt while in town paled beside the malevolence of the nemeton's presence.

                "What do you mean?" Malia asked.

                "This nemeton demands sacrifice." Sacrifice had given it power again, but not restored it.

                The ground hit Stiles' back before he realized Scott had pulled him from the car.

                "No killing," Scott growled, eyes glowing red.

                "I was thinking a deer, dumbass." Stiles shoved Scott off him and stood, doing his best to brush off his clothes.

                "Oh." He shuffled. "That's not the same, but I still don't feel right killing an animal for a tree."

                Stiles scowled at him. "You're connected to it. Shouldn't you be caring for it? It got this bad through misuse and neglect."

                "Deaton hasn't told me I'm supposed to do anything."

                Stiles scoffed. "Deaton told me something I needed to know maybe twice ever. I figured things out for myself. You should try it. Now come help me catch a deer."

Once he had his sacrifice, Stiles asked for privacy more because he thought this pack would be squeamish than because he needed it. Back home, he usually left offerings over the roots, but here he had a stump. He bled the deer and poured wine stolen from Lydia's kitchen over the flat surface.

                "I'll find some time to bake you cookies," he promised. Animals, insects, and the elements would eat the snacks, not the tree itself, but the nemeton was part of the forest. He wondered if this nemeton had a favorite flavor. His own nemeton generated the purest energy in response to oatmeal raisin. He thought that might be because Derek enjoyed sharing them so much. The nemeton always responded well to Derek's presence. They didn't have a Derek here.

                The nemeton had a root cellar. It was half caved in, but Stiles poked around as much as he could. There were some old blood stains and broken jars. Nothing of use.

                Back on the surface, Stiles pulled the deer down to lie among the roots. Scavengers would have an easier time reaching it there. He made sure it was opposite the side the pack would approach from. No need to rub a corpse, even an animal's, in their faces.

                With a final shrug, Stiles rapped his knuckles against the stump. "Thanks, woody," he said. As he turned away, his foot caught on one of the roots. Stiles fell among them. His throat hurt, a burning tear. He gasped.

                An echo of Peter's voice whispered, "Ink, bite, or sacrifice?"

                Stiles heard a raven's caw. He felt talons at his throat, ripping through his throat.

                Hands turned Stiles over, and he found himself looking up at Scott.

                "Are you okay?"

                Lydia leaned into view. "I don't understand. I felt him dying."

                "So did I," Stiles croaked. He rubbed at his neck. "I think other me was injured, but Peter helped him."

                "Injured how?" Scott asked.

                "His throat was slashed," Lydia answered.

                "He's fine," Stiles said. "Peter saved him."

                "How?" Scott demanded, leaning forward with his eyes wide.

                "That depends on other me. I think Peter asked him to choose." Stiles sat up, rubbing his neck.

                "Choose what? Stop making me ask." Scott's voice hardened. His eyes flashed red.

                Stiles glowered. He still felt the lingering pain in his throat, and Scott thought he was just being difficult? "Whether he joined the pack, became a wolf, or traded someone else's life for his. I don't know which he chose or if he even could."

                Scott helped Stiles to his feet. He looked around as if unsure what to do next. Stiles saw nothing of use, but wolf eyes worked differently than his. Maybe Scott would find some clue Stiles missed.

                Scott sighed and shook his head once he had scanned the clearing.

                Stiles turned to Lydia. "You had a vision of him, but it wasn't a premonition."

                Her face was ashen. "So did you."

                "But how? I see auras, not visions." Stiles frowned.

                "The nemeton?" Scott suggested. "It was where Stiles traded places with you, and you were just... making offerings to it."

                "I wasn't with my nemeton when we traded, though he was just now. Could Lydia's power have formed some kind of connection since he nearly died?"

                "I don't know," Lydia said. "Even I don't fully understand my power."

                A banshee with vast amounts of power she couldn't control sounded like a frolicking good time to Stiles, for sure.

                "We should ask Deaton," Scott said. Stiles must have made a face because Scott asked, "What's wrong with that?"

                "In my experience, druids never share as much as they know," Stiles said.

                Scott shook his head. "At least ask him before deciding he's no help."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. One phone call later, when Deaton proved to be of no help, Stiles stared pointedly at Scott until Scott raised his hands and admitted defeat.

                "I don't know why you're so smug about being right since it means we still don't know anything," Scott said.

                "I don't care how different we are, your Stiles would definitely be smug too." Stiles crossed his arms and leaned back against Lydia's car. They had no reason to get in when they had no idea where to go.

                Lydia said, "I have a terrible idea." Her aura twitched with agitation. "Deaton isn't the only person we know with information. He's just the only one who never tried to kill us."

                "You're talking about Peter," Malia said.

                "Will he even help us?" Scott asked.

                Lydia raised her eyebrows. "I said it was a terrible idea."

                Stiles grinned. "I like it. I want to see evil Peter."

                Scott asked, "Malia, do you know where he is?"

                "No." She pulled out her phone. "But I can call him."

                "I don't think he can answer," Lydia said. She took a slow, pained breath before continuing. "He's somewhere cold with white noise like rain. He's ranting, but incoherently."

                "Were you going to let him die?" Stiles' voice hardened to steel.

                "I'm hearing this _now_ ," Lydia spat back. "So shut up and let me follow it."

                Stiles said, "I thought the sound was with Peter."

                "It is. That's why it leads to him."

                "So is it moving?"

                "No."

                "Then how do you follow it? Does it get louder as you get closer?"

                "No. He's this way." Lydia set off without explaining how she knew which direction a sound nowhere near her came from.

                "He's within walking distance?" Stiles demanded, undeterred.

                Lydia ignored him. Since she led them through the preserve for an hour and a half, he supposed the answer was 'sort of.' Lydia stopped by the lakeshore, but the water was still and quiet. She tilted her head as though listening. Stiles almost said something, but Malia caught his eye and shook her head. He wandered in circles nearby to let Lydia listen to her visions in peace.

                He rubbed at his throat. It didn't hurt, but he imagined the other Stiles must be miserable now, no matter how Peter had saved him.

                "We're too low," Lydia said.

                Turning, Stiles found her pointing toward a rising cliff face across the lake.

                "I thought the sound was water, but it's wind."

                "Do you have low-def death visions, or...?" Stiles raised an eyebrow.

                No one answered, but Malia shot him a dirty glare.

                "Whatever," Stiles muttered. "Are we climbing?"

                Lydia shook her head. "He's falling. You'll need to fish him out of the lake."

                She pointed upward. A man staggered out of a cave along the cliff face. His aura was too powerful for a beta, even more than Malia's. Maybe wolves were just stronger in this world. The man—Peter—stumbled. He tottered at the cliff's edge. He fell.

                Stiles usually carried a knife. He grabbed Malia's hand and squeezed as hard as he could until she growled and released her claws. She snatched her hand back, and her claws raked across his palm. Stiles squeezed his hand shut and let the blood flow. He opened his demon eye as wide as he could. The two combined were enough power.

                He ran across the surface of the lake and dove only when he reached Peter. Gasping, Stiles dragged Peter through the lake to the shore where the other guy's pack waited. They stared. He had that effect on people.

                Peter sputtered and coughed up water, but he was alive. His bloodshot eyes flickered between natural and supernatural blues. He lacked the strength to growl. Black veins pulsed along his arm. They smelled of vinegar. To Stiles' demon eye, they looked like leeches drilling through Peter's blood. Stiles could heal that. He set his still bleeding palm against the wound on Peter's arm. Stiles' blood burned through Peter, burned away the poison.

                "What the hell," Peter asked when Stiles was done. "What _are_ you?"


	7. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack's ink heals Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, plus I'll be out of town this weekend, so have an extra today! I'll post again tomorrow (Wednesday), but probably not Thursday through Sunday.

Scott hovered over Stiles.

                "Don't try to speak or move your head," he ordered.

                Darting his eyes around didn't award Stiles much of a view. He lay on his back. Scott was backlit. The ceiling was concrete.

                "I'm going to take my hand off you for a moment," Scott said. Stiles became aware of Scott's hand on his right shoulder. "If it hurts too much, wave your hands or something. Just nothing with your neck."

                Black veins climbed Scott's forearm. Stiles wondered how much pain he was taking for Stiles to feel nothing.

                Scott took his hand away.

                Stiles clamped his teeth around a scream. He clenched his fists against the pain. His neck burned. He remembered the raven's talons tearing through him, felt them in his throat still. His back and arm were still wounded too.

                Scott returned. Stiles barely held back a sigh. The pain faded to a dull throb. Stiles knew Scott would take care of him. He hurt now, but he was safe. The pack would give him time to heal.

                Stiles wondered when he'd come to trust this Scott.

                "I have water for you," Scott said. "I'm going to help you sit up and take a sip. It's room temperature, but swallowing will still hurt. I need to start taking less pain, so it will hurt a lot."

                Stiles thought, _Okay,_ really loudly and hoped it showed on his face.

                With a single firm nod, Scott helped Stiles sit. He brought a glass of water to Stiles' lips and tilted it enough to let a sip pass through. Stiles felt like he swallowed half his throat along with it, or at the very least, a ball of barbed wire.

                "That's good. Just a little more."

                Scott gave Stiles several more sips of water before lying him down to sleep again. Stiles had just enough time to worry pain would keep him up before he fell asleep.

                Derek was there the next time Stiles woke. He flipped one-handed through a romance novel for several pages before noticing Stiles was up. When he did, he smiled encouragingly and set aside his book without marking the page.

                "Hey, Sleeping Beauty." He spoke softly, like Stiles' ears hurt instead of his throat. "I have broth for you. I'll be right back."

                He pulled his hand from Stiles' shoulder. Stiles clenched his teeth against the pain until Derek returned to feed him spoonfuls of barely warm broth.

                "Scott thinks you'll be able to speak within the next day or two," Derek said. "That seems too fast, but the ink spread pretty far. Maybe he's right."

                Stiles couldn't ask for an explanation, and Derek either missed or ignored his eyebrow messages. Derek had mentioned ink, so Stiles assumed Peter understood that extending his first fingers had meant he chose the first option: ink. He didn't want the bite, and he refused to sacrifice another life for his own.

                "You should sleep," Derek said when he was done. "The ink will work faster if you're not fighting it."

                Since Derek ignored another round of furrowing brows, Stiles took advantage of the peace having his pain taken afforded him to sleep.

                Someone shook Stiles awake. He grumbled weakly. It burned his throat, but less than he thought it would.

                "Wake up," Peter ordered. "You're healed enough to speak."

                Stiles squinted up at his scowling face. "How did you get electric lighting in your batcave? Does it have a dimmer?" His voice was hoarse, but it worked and with minimal pain.

                "Carefully, and no." Peter helped Stiles sit. He didn't take any pain, but Stiles felt safe and calm at his touch all the same. "You feel it, right? This is our pack bond." He ran his fingers down Stiles' arm to his wrist and lifted it for Stiles to see. A spiral had been tattooed on the inside of Stiles' wrist. "This is our pack symbol."

                Somehow, that didn't surprise Stiles. "This is what you meant by 'ink'?"

                "Not quite, though I'm glad you remember that. The ink only works after we accept you into the pack, and being accepted makes the first injection form the spiral. We had to give you a second dose after you had been—primed, so to speak. There's a much larger tattoo on your back. Malia took a picture on her phone. Would you like to see?"

                Scowling, Stiles nodded. He wished he hadn't moved his neck.

                Peter held up a cell phone showing an image of Stiles' back. The lightning scars were gone, but a tattoo had taken their place. A mass of black ink marred his skin, shaped like a writhing hoard of lines in motion. Threads stretched from the edges, reaching outward like the ink wanted to crawl over more of his skin.

                "I hate it," Stiles said.

                Peter shrugged. "You're stuck with it."

                Stiles traced his thumb over the spiral inside his wrist.

                "It won't keep you from returning to your old pack when we get you back home," Peter said.

                "Have you found anything?" Stiles' voice came out as a croak.

                Peter waited to answer until he'd gotten Stiles a drink of water. "No."

                Stiles frowned down at his wrist tattoo.

                "We'll take care of you until we do," Peter promised. He set a hand over the spiral on Stiles' wrist. Stiles believed him, trusted him.

                Stiles pulled away from Peter's touch. The trust didn't fade completely, but it lessened enough to ignore. "Can that be turned off?" He had a feeling Peter would know what he meant.

                "Only if broken, but that would stop your healing. It's not a option." At Stiles' scowl, he shook his head and sighed. "I don't have to touch you, Stiles. That's the part that bothers you, isn't it?"

                "We're not friends where I'm from."

                "I'm not him."

                "You are. Things just worked in your favor here."

                Peter chuckled. "I guess that's fair. I'd like to point out that the shape your ink has taken is one it never would for the other you."

                Stiles took another sip of water. "What does that mean?"

                "What do you think it means?"

                Stiles glared at him, but Peter smirked back unconcerned. Stiles asked, "How are the tattoos formed?"

                "I thought you would ask." Peter pulled a glass vial filled with black liquid from his pocket. "This is our ink. We inject it into the skin at a single point, and it takes shape on its own. First it forms the spiral. It can only succeed if we accept you as pack, and the ink can only take other forms if you already have our spiral."

                "Do I want to know how that works or how the ink is made?"

                "It involves blood."

                Stiles cringed.

                "The tattoo shape differs from person to person, though its purpose may be the same. Even the spiral can vary; Cora's wraps around her arm."

                "So what does it mean if I differ from myself?"

                "Perhaps you are not the same person after all."

                Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Which would make it possible that you are not the same as the Peter Hale I know."

                Depending on how much Peter had guessed or stolen through his claws in Stiles' neck, he could be acting so helpfully informative to seem different from his other self. More likely, he had calculated how much information it took to compensate for a near-death and forced pack induction. It was a lot, but Peter had already given a lot, including a promise.   
                Peter shrugged, but the smirk never fell from his lips. "Now you know us both."

                "You're both annoying. I need to sleep." Stiles didn't have the energy to sort through Peter's motivations. He was still healing.

                Peter nodded his acceptance and left Stiles alone. Looking around, Stiles found he was in something like a doctor's office, though they had him on a couch against the wall instead of the examination table at the room's center. The thought of standing up to look around left Stiles exhausted, so he leaned back against the couch cushions to go to sleep.


	8. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack meets Peter's attacker and learns more about Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this time, I expect my next update to be Monday. If I can manage something sooner, I will.

Peter coughed, spitting up lake water and blood. His body shook with exhaustion.

                Stiles let his tattoos fall back into place to save energy. Much of his power came from the nemeton, but this one was less cooperative than his. Stiles steadied his breathing. He hadn't loosed so much power since Lydia murdered his father. Back then, he'd had Peter to reign him in.

                A different Peter sat before him, hunching over to cough again. Stiles set a hand to Peter's back. They had no pack bond. He felt no comfort at the touch.

                "What attacked you?" Stiles asked.

                "You're not Stiles." Peter narrowed glowing blue eyes.

                "Sure I am,  just not the one you know."

                Peter turned to glare at Scott and Lydia for a moment. Scott shrugged.

                "A spider," he said at last.

                "You were attacked by a spider?" Stiles frowned. Spiders were creepy as hell but didn't grown larger than a hand in North America.

                "She is a very large and humanoid spider. What kind of eye is that?" Peter pointed at Stiles' face. He seemed to be regaining his strength.

                "Nightmare eye. Do you know much about spiders?"

                Peter smirked. It was such a familiar expression that Stiles had to focus on his hand touching Peter's back without activating a pack bond.

                Peter said, "Werespiders are said to span the paths between worlds with their webs. Maybe you know something about moving between worlds."

                "I don't know how I got here. Maybe I should ask her."

                "She's not friendly."

                Stiles shrugged. "The way I hear it, neither are you."

                "Guys," Scott said, "I think she wants to say hi."

                Stiles spun toward the cliff Peter had fallen from. A woman stood at the cave's edge facing them with a silvery spider web  aura twisting around her, visible only to Stiles' demon eye. She crawled along the cliff face to the lakes edge and scuttled onto the shore. On land she moved quickly, crouched low though she knew they saw her. A cloak hung from her shoulders, blowing freely in the wind. The jeans and blouse beneath it were in tatters, but the dirt on them looked fresh. Stiles guessed they must have been damaged fighting Peter.

                "We're just waiting around to talk, then?" Peter asked. He made as if to leave them to it, but Stiles grabbed him by the wrist. Peter could have broken his hold. He stayed instead.

                The spider stopped a few paces from the pack and let the cloak fall over her. She grinned at Stiles around long fangs. "Hello, darkling."

                Scott stepped between Stiles and the spider. "Who are you?"

                She swayed, considering. "You want my name. I'm too old for names. _You_ have names."

                "Are you for real?" Stiles asked.

                "People must call you something," Lydia said.

                The spider inclined her head. "Usually wordless screams. I am literally a human spider."

                Peter rolled his eyes. "Her name is Amara."

                The spider rolled her eyes too, timing it with the sway of her not-quite dance. Stiles couldn't tell if she was mocking Peter or legitimately going for an eyeroll immediately after him.

                Malia growled, "She's playing with us. Are we fighting or leaving?"

                Peter said, "I agree. Talking has gotten none of us anywhere."

                "Shut up, Peter," Lydia snapped.

                Amara tittered. "You can all go. I only wanted to see how the trade went."

                "What is that supposed to mean?" Scott demanded.

                Amara scurried past Scott to set a hand to Stiles' cheek. "This pack won't accept your kind, darkling. Find me when you're out of options."

                She hurried away faster than Stiles' eye could follow. He tracked her aura only moments longer before losing it as well.

                "What were you doing with her, Peter?" Malia jabbed a finger against his chest.

                "Getting stabbed." He half gestured to the closed wound on his arm.

                "Why were you there to get stabbed?" Scott asked.

                Peter sighed. "We were supposed to be trading information. Amara had the address of someone who owes me a favor, and all she wanted in return was to talk about Stiles. I assumed she was interested in the nogitsune." He studied Stiles from the corner of his eye. "Guess I was wrong."

                "An address," Lydia said flatly.

                "It was a big favor." Peter smirked. Stiles doubted Peter would say more about it. If he had to guess, Stiles would say Peter planned to kill whoever it was. He preferred not to guess until he knew more about this version of Peter.

                "What would a spider want with me?" Stiles asked.

                No one answered.

                Scott grabbed a fistful of Peter's shirt and rammed him against a tree trunk. "We saved your life, Peter. Lydia and Stiles saved your life. You owe us."

                "There are a lot of things I owe you and your pack, Scott." Peter spoke slowly, unthreatened by Scott's aggression.

                "She tried to kill you once. Do you think she won't try again?" Scott leaned forward, eyes glowing.

                "Are you two really doing this?" Malia asked, fed up. Maybe it was a regular thing, or maybe she expected better.

                Stiles pulled Scott back by his shoulder and placed his right hand over Peter's eyes. He drew on magic stored in his body, deeper than the tattoos, nightmare, or even blood magic. He drew on the power of _real_ sacrifice. Peter fell to his knees. Stiles stood over him and gazed into him. His nemeton lived in another world, but the power was Stiles' now. He closed his eyes and saw as Peter.

                _Peter eyed the cave with a frown. It looked like a trap. He stepped forward. Finding Darington was worth springing a trap._

_His contact had warned him that no one knew what to expect from Amara. She was new to the area but very, very old in her own right. No one could find a trace of her history, but that didn't worry Peter. He assumed her history began in some other version of the world._

_Amara stood in the shadows. She looked human for the moment, though her brown eyes held no hint of human emotion. They were hard and cold as marble in winter. She tilted her head at the sight of him, and her shoulders slanted in counterpoint to the motion._

_"I am told you know Stiles Stilinski," she said._

_Peter nodded. "And I hear you know where I can find my old friend Darington."_

_"Yes, yes." She rambled the address like the trade meant nothing. Definitely a trap, and she didn't even bother to hide it. "And Stiles, does he know you, Peter Hale?"_

_"Yes." He answered more than a little out of surprise. Strangers might think Stiles was an easy way into Scott's pack. They might wonder how he survived a nogitsune or how he survived at all while still human. Peter was the alpha who bit Stiles' best friend. No one should wonder whether he knew Peter. They had worked together openly more than once._

_"And your relationship?" Amara pressed._

_"Amusing." Peter watched her through narrowed eyes. She would give herself away eventually._

_"There must be power within him." She swayed, deep in thought. "And yet, and yet he was unsuitable. The sweetness was already on him."_

_Peter opted to wait her out rather than admit he didn't know what she was talking about anymore._

_The spider returned her attention to Peter. "He has touched power, yes?"_

_Peter said, "His pack has defeated many foes." Himself included. Twice, though it rankled to admit. He doubted that was what Amara meant._

_"But how close has he come?"_

_"He was one of the foes." The longer he kept her interested, the more chance he had to spot her trap. He almost suspected she meant to attack him, but then why go to the trouble of luring him here if not to spring something more complex?_

_She hissed in delight and shimmied in the darkness. "Which one, which one?"_

_"The nogitsune."_

_She stopped, tilted her head, and stepped forward. "He is not a nogitsune."_

_"Not anymore."_

_Her tongue ran over her teeth. So the nogitsune had been her target after all. She just hadn't known._

_She asked, "He is free of it?"_

_"Yes."_

_"It is dead?"_

_"No."_

_"Did he die? Was he raised?"_

_"No." Peter couldn't help but chuckle. He had died and made Lydia raise him._

_Amara practically vibrated with excitement. "They_ saved _him?"_

_"Yes."_

_Amara tilted her head back to stare down her nose at him. "Will they save you?"_

_"I don't expect they'll need to." Peter bared fang and claw._

_Amara's quiet hiss transformed into a cackle. She moved faster than Peter but fought cautiously. She kept her distance long enough to pull four more arms from her side with sickening cracks and pops. Peter thought they might have been made of her ribs. Each of those arms ended in a serrated blade instead of a hand. Her forehead stretched, making room for beady eyes to bubble out of her skin. Venom dripped from her teeth, now stretched past her lips, and from the blades of her newly revealed arms. One of those arms pierced Peter through his own. Laughing, the spider scurried deeper into the cave._

_Peter took a step after her before he realized the fight was done. Not all spiders were venomous. She was._

Stiles came back to himself. He stumbled. Peter knelt before him, wide eyes bloodshot in an otherwise bloodless face.

                "What did you do?" Scott asked.

                Stiles focused on his breathing. His heart raced. Blood rushed in his ears. He breathed in and out, making each breath longer than the last.

                "Stiles, are you okay?" Lydia asked.

                He bared his teeth before remembering she wasn't Lydia. Or was Lydia, but not the one he knew best.

                "He told the truth," Stiles said.

                "But what did you do?" Scott insisted.

                Stiles shrugged. It threw off his balance, but Malia steadied him. "I don't know. I've never had anyone to teach me. I just... watched his memory."

                Peter stood, steadying himself against the tree at his back. Stiles had never seen someone stand after having him bore through their mind. Peter panted. Sweat rolled down his brow.

                "You should rest," Stiles said, leaning against Malia. "I also should rest." He leaned his head against Malia's shoulder and let his eyes fall shut.

                Stiles woke later to find they had moved him while he slept. Falling asleep in the woods made that inevitable. He lay in his old bed, the other guy's bed. Sitting up only made the room spin a little, so Stiles guessed he'd be fine in a few minutes. He pushed himself to stand and barely swayed on his feet at all.

                The others surrounded Peter in the living room. He sat on the couch, shaking his head. When Stiles stepped into the room, he looked up.

                "Stiles," he said.

                "What's up, guys?" Stiles asked. He leaned against the doorframe to hide a wave of dizziness.

                "Peter was just telling us everything he knows about parallel universes," Lydia explained. While Scott and Malia stood over Peter, Lydia sat with her legs crossed in Noah's armchair.

                "Which didn't take long since I don't know anything," Peter spat.

                "But you know something about banshees," Lydia countered. "So how does a banshee experience the death of someone a universe away?"

                "It could be argued many of your visions are of alternate realities where these people die, explaining how they sometimes live despite your visions, but, really, sweetheart, this case was a you thing, not a banshee thing. You'll always know when Stiles is in mortal danger."

                She blinked in confusion and didn't even tell him off for calling her 'sweetheart.' Instead, she asked, "Why?"

                Peter thought for a moment before speaking. Stiles regained his balance, so he walked across the room to drop onto the couch beside Peter. When the others stared, Stiles offered only a nod.

                Peter said, "Most banshees go mad, or appear mad to others, like your grandmother and  Meredith.  While you've had your brushes with madness, you have not succumbed. Why do you think that is?"

                "I assume you're going to tell me."

                "I was hoping you would figure it out, but I suppose not. Banshees don't find anchors the way werewolves do. Most banshees. Doing so would only increase their visions."

                Lydia arched an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me Stiles is my anchor?"

                Stiles tried not to gape. He'd known the other guy and Lydia were friends and packmates, but he thought Peter had just implied they were _in love._

                Honestly, he'd thought it was Malia. Unless Lydia's feelings were unrequited. Even if they were, it explained how emotional she'd been. Stiles had robbed her of more than a friend.

                Lydia said, "Even if that's true, Stiles experienced it too. He's not a banshee or close friends with one."

                Stiles wondered if mortal enemies counted.

                Peter laughed, shaking his head like she'd done something adorable. Not mortal enemies, then. It wasn't Lydia he was connected to.

                Stiles kicked Peter's ankle and said, "We got it backwards. I didn't see it through you; you saw it through me. I am Stiles. I'm this world's connection to him, and you used me to see him." He kicked Peter again. "But you didn't have to be such a dick about it."

                Peter shook his head.

                "Did they tell you how I got here?" Stiles asked.

                "I was under the impression they didn't know."

                Stiles rolled his eyes.

                Scott told Stiles, "He's almost as difficult as you."

                Stiles scoffed. "No one is as difficult as me."

                "Why are you proud of that?" Peter asked.

                Stiles continued, ignoring Peter. "Besides, I can just take whatever I want if he won't share."

                "It seemed like that took a lot out of you," Peter countered.

                "It did," Stiles agreed. He leaned forward and locked eyes with Peter. "But how much do you think I'm willing to sacrifice to get home?"

                Malia said, "Peter, stop playing around. You're going to tell us anyway, so don't waste our time."

                Peter sighed. The look he gave Malia was very nearly a pout. "Amara obviously had something to do with it. Capture and interrogate her instead, if you can." He turned back to Stiles. "Honestly, I don't think you're going home."

                Stiles had his hands around Peter's throat before either of them realized he would attack. He burned with the heat of his demon eye. Someone tried to stop him, so he hurled them away with a thought. Scott roared, but he wasn't Stiles' alpha. Peter clawed at Stiles' hands. The blood made him stronger.

                Stiles' name crashed into him in a wall of sound. Lydia screamed. The force pushed him off the couch and into the wall. A photo fell off the wall. The glass shattered. Stiles pushed himself up slowly. He needed to control himself, not fly off the handle at Peter of all people.

                "I'm done," Stiles said. He held up his hands.

                "I thought you said he was your alpha," Scott said.

                "I said Peter was my alpha. This is some other guy," Stiles spat. He stood, but held his hands awkwardly in front of him. He had nowhere to wipe the blood.

                Peter coughed, rubbing his throat. "I guess you've shown us what you'll sacrifice. Too bad I'm the only Peter you've got."

                "You're taunting me right after I tried to strangle you," Stiles pointed out.

                "So you admit you were trying to kill me." Peter tilted his head. His throat had already healed.

                "I've never seen a werewolf successfully strangled to death, so not really." Stiles still hoped the pack hated Peter almost as much as they hated Stiles.

                Malia snapped, "Both of you, stop. I don't care if you think we'll fail, Peter. You're going to help us get Stiles back. And Stiles... tell us about the people you killed."

                "What?" He thought they'd settled that they were both killers.

                "Was it self-defense?" she asked.

                "Was yours?" He knew what had happened to her family on his world and suspected that much had stayed the same here. It hadn't been her fault, but it hurt too much for her to answer.

                Malia flinched.

                "Leave her alone," Scott said.

                "I'm fine, Scott," Malia said. "Mine was an accident caused when my mom tried to kill me. Your turn."

                Stiles nodded. "Vengeance."

                Peter almost looked pleased.

                "Not self-defense?" Scott asked.

                Usually, it was, but self-defense against the bad guys counted as vengeance if they'd already harmed the pack. Stiles didn't think Scott cared about usually. "Not always."

                Scott shook his head. "Were any of them innocent?" By the way Scott couldn't meet Stiles' eyes, Stiles could tell he knew. Not everything—he _couldn't_ know everything—but he knew Stiles had taken an innocent life.

                "One." Only one, but it was enough.

                He could practically see Scott wondering why he hadn't lied.

                Not Lydia. She clenched her hands in front of her chest. Her knuckles were white. "It was my mother," she said. Said, not asked. "That was how you avenged your father."

                Stiles' hands trembled at his sides. "You screamed so loud I almost thought you'd found your banshee powers." She was the wrong Lydia, he reminded himself.

                She was still Lydia.

                Malia put herself between Lydia and Stiles, growling. Her eyes glowed.

                Stiles was weakened from expending so much energy earlier, but he was also bleeding. If Malia attacked, he could take her. He would have to push her away and run rather than fighting back. The rest of the pack would defend her, as would Peter. This was _her_ world.

                "Everyone, calm down," Scott said. "The only way to get both Stileses back where they belong is to work together."

                "Use your claws," Lydia said. "We can't trust him without insurance. Find out what he knows."

                "Peter does it," Stiles said. It seemed the best way to confuse them and make sure a strange Peter's claws never got near him.

                "What?" Lydia asked.

                "If you want someone's claws in my neck, only Peter's match the scars I've already got."

                Peter said, "You just tried to kill me." He didn't mention scars lasting on a boy who could heal most wounds instantly. He didn't mention the effects of repeatedly accessing someone's memories. Usually, it fractured them, made it hard to remember things without a werewolf there to help. In the cases it didn't, it became difficult to extract anything the recipient wanted hidden. Scott could steal Stiles' memories, but he'd have to work for them. Stiles doubted he knew how.

                "Peter can't be trusted," Lydia said.

                "Neither can I," Stiles pointed out.

                "Stop!" Scott shouted. "Everyone, stop. I'll do it. Stiles, please let me."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. He took a seat sideways on the empty armchair so the back wouldn't block his neck. He winked at Lydia before Scott's claws sank into his neck. He shouldn't have, but at this point, he wasn't sure it mattered anymore.

                Stiles and Scott stood alone in the Stilinski living room, facing each other over the coffee table.

                "By the way, Scottie, I've done this a few more times than you."

                Scott looked tired. "You're part of Peter's pack," he said. "When Peter was killing people, going after everyone involved in burning his family, we refused to kill with him. You agreed."

                "We were accomplices, not murderers ourselves."

                Scott had refused to kill anyone, had agreed to help trap Kate and prove she'd committed the arson. Peter claimed she got out of control, that he tried to capture her like he'd agreed. Stiles could tell he was lying, but Scott wanted to believe something better. He saw the best in people, even when it wasn't there.

                "But you helped him," Scott insisted. This Scott hadn't believed Peter's lies, or this Peter hadn't lied.

                "We _saved_ him. Have you looked at your Peter recently? He'd betray his own daughter for a shot at being alpha again. Honestly, I get the feeling he already has."

                Why else would Malia be so cold to her own father? Peter acted like he had something to make up for, listening to her while pretending it was grudging. Malia kept making the pack wait before she dealt with Peter though, probably because she simply didn't want to.

                Scott stepped forward, angling around the coffee table. "Stiles, is your pack... are you the villains?"

                Stiles laughed. "Only if you ask the Argents. We don't kill without reason, and we're not taking over the world. We're just at war."

                "At war?"

                "With the Argents, the hunters. They're supposed to have a code, but only Chris and Allison care, and then only if they're in the mood. Other monsters keep butting in, drawn by the nemeton, but none of them matter compared to the hunters."

                "Show me what you did," Scott said.

                "You don't want to watch your friend's mom die, Scott. I've already admitted to it."

                "So you have nothing to hide."

                Stiles shook his head. "You shine your light wherever you want, there's gonna be a corner of shadow you missed somewhere."

                They stood in the cemetery behind the crowd of a funeral. Lydia stood at the front, weeping openly. Bandages covered half her face. She wore a high-necked black dress that hid the rest of the bandages reaching midway down her torso and arm.

                "This is what I did," Stiles said.

                Lydia didn't cry alone. Natalie Martin had a lot of friends and family. Allison put an arm around Lydia's shoulders.

                "I took a life from every person here. I wanted to take something from Lydia, but I did so much worse."

                Scott asked, "Would you do it again?"

                "I don't know. I'm not a villain, Scott, but I'm not a hero either. I'm not even a good person. I take care of my pack, and I fight those who would kill them."

                "Why didn't you say any of this to Lydia?"

                The cemetery faded. They stood by the lake, watching the werespider touch Stiles' cheek.

                "I want to know if she was right. I'm too tired right now to care if you hate me. I just want to know. If you still need to see, I'll show you how I killed Lydia's mom. Then you'll tell me if I should go find a spider."

                He waited for Scott to nod.

                The nemeton towered over them. Rain poured with enough force to breach the tree's thick canopy and pelt Natalie Martin where she stood tied to the trunk. She begged for him to stop. Stiles pulled a garrote tight around her throat. When she had died, Stiles drew a knife and slashed her throat. he bashed the hilt against her skull. The nemeton accepted her life.

                Scott recoiled. He pulled his claws from Stiles' neck and stumbled back.

                "Where did you learn that?" Scott asked. "Who taught you to use the threefold death?"

                "No one. The tree. It showed me what to do." No one ever taught Stiles anything. When he asked, they said no. When he figured it out anyway, they said, 'abomination of magical energy.'

                Scott shook his head. "Stiles, you're not a witch."

                "Then what am I?" Stiles challenged.

                Scott's voice broke when he said, "You're a darach."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Stiles asked. He'd never heard of a darach. By the range of shock and horror on their faces, everyone else had. To them, darach meant something bad.

                Peter pushed the couch upright again; it had toppled when Lydia's voice threw them back. He sat down and crossed his arms

                "Is anyone going to tell me what a darach is?" Stiles asked, raising his arms.

                Scott said, "It's a dark druid, one who turned to human sacrifice for power."

                "Does it matter that I sort of did the opposite?" He'd wanted her dead to avenge his father. Power was a bonus.

                "That's _worse."_ Scott shook his head.

                "Then it matters. Am I leaving?"

                Scott began, "It's not that simple," but Stiles didn't let him get further.

                "I'm making it simple. Either you'll work with me, or we'll work separately. I don't care how I get home so long as I do."

                Scott shared a look with his packmates. He turned back to Stiles with shoulders squared and said, "Promise not to kill anyone."

                "I don't exactly have any deadly plots hatching, Scott." He had no enemies here, except maybe the spider, but she couldn't get him home if she was dead.

                "Promise." Scott's eyes glowed.

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "I promise not to kill anyone except in the last defense of my life or someone else's." He'd made the same promise to his Scott back home, more sincerely because he cared what his Scott thought.

                Scott nodded his acceptance. "If we can work with Peter, we can work with you."

                "You two have more in common than I thought," Malia added.

                Stiles laughed. "Is that supposed to insult me?"

                "He's a power-hungry maniac who only cares for himself," Malia said.

                "I care for others," Peter corrected. "I'm only _loyal_ to myself." He was covering pain. Stiles knew him well enough to tell, though he doubted anyone else here could. Maybe Peter cared about his daughter after all.

                Stiles ignored that and said, "I stand insulted. My pack is the reason it matters what universe I'm in."

                "This isn't helping," Scott said. "We need to stop bickering and focus."

                "On what?" Lydia asked. "Peter doesn't have anything useful to add, and we're still waiting to hear back from Deaton."

                Scott said, "I'll call Deaton. He doesn't know about Amara or... the full extent of Stiles' power."

                "Neither do you," Stiles couldn't resist pointing out. "Neither do I."

                Scott frowned. "Try not to make Lydia mad enough to break anything else while I'm away."

                Stiles threw up the finger guns.

                When Scott was gone, Stiles asked, "So did we learn anything from Peter, or was it all roughly what I heard?"

                Malia frowned at Peter, but she glowered at Stiles. "He thinks the alpha you mentioned was a raven."

                Peter frowned back. "What I think is that the ravens and the spider made a permanent trade of Stiles. Now she has the one tied to darkness, and they have the one tied to void. I don't think either of you is meant to stay human."

                "We're each unsuitable for the monster in our own world," Stiles said. "But if spiders can move between worlds, why not come to me? What does she gain this way?"

                "She doesn't have to draw you away from your pack," Lydia suggested.

                Good point. He had no loyalty to these people, and that seemed to bother them.

                Malia said, "And maybe there's something in this world she couldn't take with her."

                "Like what?" Stiles asked.

                Malia shrugged.

                "And why not just grab me and bring me back?" Stiles pushed.

                Peter said, "Crossing through the void as a spider does would kill a human. I don't know how she got you here, but it wasn't on her back."

                "How do you know that?" Stiles asked. "For that matter, how do you recognize the ravens? My Peter didn't know what they were after seeing them in person."

                "Your Peter grew up in Beacon Hills?" Peter asked.

                "Yes."

                "Was he injured in a fire started by Kate Argent that killed most of his family?"

                "He spent six years recovering."

                "Did he die taking his revenge?"

                "What? No."

                "I did," Peter said. "And when I came back, creatures I had never seen found their way into my hometown more than once. I've made it my business to recognize them."

                "You don't have a library or a nerdy nephew to sort through it all for you here," Stiles noted. Peter hated research almost as much as Cora.

                "Nerdy nephew?" Malia asked. "Are you talking about _Derek?"_

"Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

                Malia and Lydia shared a look.

                Peter said, "Derek works very hard to seem like a tough guy."

                "It doesn't work as well when you live with him," Stiles noted. Scott was the gentlest member of his pack, but Derek was a solid second.

                "I remember," Peter agreed.

                Lydia said, "At the nemeton, something attacked Stiles just before he was taken. We didn't get a clear look, but could it have been the werespider?"

                Peter said, "If she's involved, it stands to reason she'd be present."

                Scott returned. He surveyed the room. "Deaton has a lead, but he's following it on his own. Liam called. He and Hayden found something. Not one of the betas, but maybe a clue. Lydia and Malia, they need your help. I'm going to talk to Stiles."

                "Does this mean you're done with me?" Peter asked.

                Scott sighed. "For now."

                "Aw, do you want to be allies again?"

                Scott glared. "I don't trust you, but you have more experience and information than we do."

                "I know your number, Scott," Peter said. "I'll text you." He sauntered out, seemingly unaware of the pack's glares.

                Lydia and Malia set out soon after. Stiles had no idea who Liam and Hayden were. With any luck, he'd be back home before he needed to find out. He knew Satomi. She had been a friend of the Hales before the fire. She didn't like Peter.

                Scott sat on the couch facing Stiles. He held his hands together in front of him.

                "Have you sacrificed anyone other than Mrs. Martin? It could have something to do with how you got here, so please be honest."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "At this point, I've exhausted my reasons to lie." He'd given up his darkest secrets, but at least none of this could follow him home. "There were two others."

                Scott nodded. "You can probably guess that three is a significant number."

                "I think the 'threefold' thing gave it away," Stiles said.

                "I was almost wrong about your being a darach. One sacrifice isn't enough." He said almost.

                "But three is."

                Scott nodded. "You also use blood magic, which is related but less extreme, especially since you use your own blood. And you have the eye of a void demon. And whatever your tattoos are."

                "A mix of symbol magic and blood magic delivered via potion embedded in the skin. What does all this have to do with anything?"

                "Deaton says most people stick to a single path in magic. It takes a lot to learn even that, but it's also dangerous to mix them."

                "And I mix them."

                "You mix them a lot." Scott sighed. "I still have your bloody shirt from when you arrived. Deaton's going to see if he can tell what you were poisoned with. I heard Peter tell you Amara can't just carry people between worlds, and Deaton agrees. He said before that magic couldn't do this, but maybe with enough disparate, powerful magics combining, something unexpected could be possible. I think both of you were attacked in the same moment, and I think Stiles was bitten. Combining that bite, the poison in your blood, and the lightning strike with your powers might, theoretically, let you perform world-changing magic to bring you here."

                "Hypothetically," Stiles corrected absently. "That seems like an awfully complicated plot."

                "Not compared to the difficulty of finding _you_ across all possible universes. Amara could have given Lydia the poison, claiming it would kill you. Then when she knows you've been poisoned, she returns to strike our Stiles."

                Stiles squinted. "Can spiders cast lightning?"

                "I don't know."

                "What kind of person could make blood magic zero in on a lightning strike in another universe?"

                "I don't know. Deaton will have more soon."

                "You rely an awful lot on him."

                "He's all we've got, Stiles. Peter couldn't help. I texted Argent and Deucalion, but neither one can help. No one else knows anything about magic." Scott glowered but didn't shift. His eyes stayed brown. Stiles wondered if that meant he had excellent control or experience arguing with Stiles. Back home, Stiles and Scott argued plenty, but playfully. They didn't have time for real arguments anymore, or maybe Scott just didn't want to.

                Stiles said, "Sometimes I wonder how our worlds can be so similar and so different."

                Scott furrowed his brow. "Stiles, I'm serious. A darach can travel ley lines. Have you ever done that?"

                Stiles shook his head.

                "The ley lines converge on the nemeton, where Stiles left and you arrived. With powerful enough magic, it may be possible to travel farther on ley lines than anyone knew. Maybe it's generally not done because it requires too unique a mix of magics, and maybe that's why it took _you_ to manage it."

                Stiles grimaced. "I guess Deaton shared something after all, though this still isn't confirmed."

                "He helps when he can," Scott said. "Now you and I will help. Our library is surprisingly useful. Even people who refuse to acknowledge monsters know subconsciously they're in Beacon Hills. The librarians actively stock the kind of sources we need, sometimes even in duplicates."

                "Then I hope we get lucky," Stiles said. In his experience, an alpha did everything he could to guide his pack, even to the point of lying to them. He wondered if Scott meant the library to help him or distract him.


	9. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles explores the Hales' home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very bad at apostrophes. I know where they go; I just miss the key while typing. I correct more of those than commas when I read through each chapter.

Light bled through his eyelids. Stiles woke. His arm hung off the edge of the couch over Peter's shoulder. Peter had fallen asleep holding Stiles' hand. His head lolled back against the cushions. Stiles' pain had faded, fortunately. He didn't think Peter could sap it while unconscious.

                Stiles sat up. Even in sleep, Peter held to his hand.

                "Hey," Stiles said, tugging away from Peter. His throat was dry, but regular dry.

                "Mm?" Peter murmured without bothering to wake.

                "Get off your ass and show me to a shower," Stiles demanded.

                Waking, finally, Peter chuckled. "I guess you're well enough to go upstairs."

                "Upstairs? Your cave has an upstairs?"

                Peter's chuckle found its way to a half-mocking laugh. "There is a house there. We broke down some basement walls to access the caves, and Stiles pulled some of the caves in. I don't claim it's perfect, but it fooled you."

                Stiles scowled.

                "Come on," Peter said, reclaiming Stiles' hand to pull him to his feet. "Some of it's nature magic and more is illusion. I can show you later."

                "Start with the shower," Stiles agreed. "And I need to borrow Other Me's clothes."

                "I imagine you'll borrow more than that," Peter said. He led Stiles to a stone wall and then through it. Passing through didn't feel like anything. Stiles had expected at least a brief temperature change.

                "Like Platform Nine and Three-Quarters," Stiles noted.

                "Is that necessary?" Peter asked, voice heavy with disdain.

                "Your tolerance must be low if a single book reference is enough to do you in."

                "It's more than a reference," Peter insisted. "It's a promise."

                Stiles shrugged.

                The stairs led into a laundry room. One of the two dryers ran on a wrinkle prevent cycle. With the sigh Stiles would expect from someone's stuffy dad, Peter turned off the dryer.

                In barely more than a speaking voice, Peter said, "I don't care if we have our own generator. That's no excuse to waste energy."

                Someone stomped twice on the floor from the room above them.

                Peter made a face at the ceiling but said nothing else. He motioned Stiles along. Outside the laundry room, they stepped into a kitchen more aligned with the Martins' taste than anything Stiles had seen from Derek, Cora, or Malia. Stiles had no time for stainless steel or granite counters. He hurried Peter along past the dining room to another set of stairs. Finally, Peter led him into a bedroom. If not for clothes strewn about, it would almost pass for a guest room. There were no band posters on the wall or photos of friends, no sign Stiles had any hobbies. No sign the room belonged to anyone.

                "By the smell, he keeps the clean clothes on that side." Peter motioned to the back corner. "Pick something, and I'll show you to the shower. They should fit you, more or less."

                "More or less?" Stiles had figured having the same body meant the clothes should fit perfectly.

                Peter shrugged.

                Stiles rolled his eyes. Other Stiles seemed to favor dark colors and long sleeves. So many long sleeves. It was like he'd never heard of such seasons as 'spring' and 'summer' even though it was almost June. Stiles had to resort to the closet to find a t-shirt. When he had something to wear, Peter dropped a towel on top and pointed to a door down the hall. Maybe Stiles had taken too long. Peter left before Stiles could ask which shampoo was his. Maybe he'd get lucky and there would be only one.

                There were four, but Stiles sniffed each one and used the one that smelled nicest. He did the same for body wash and picked the blue loofah because it was prettiest. Stiles had been sleeping for days, waking only to drink broth and piss it out. At least they'd wiped the blood off his throat and changed his shirt. It felt good to be clean again.

                The bite on his arm and the burns on his back had healed alongside the gash in his throat. He checked the scar on his shoulder where Donovan had bitten him. It was still there, but he imagined it was fainter. The scar on his chest where he'd been impaled by a giant shard of glass while Malia fought her mother hadn't healed either.

                Stiles let the water run over him. Even though he'd been here at least half a week, Stiles had only spent a matter of hours with the pack. He ran a hand over the spiral on the inside of his wrist. When Stiles left the shower, he would have to find out what being accepted into the pack meant.

                After Peter bit Scott, Derek had claimed killing with Peter was an initiation. This world's Scott had gold eyes, so murder can't have been a requirement. Ruling out killing didn't tell Stiles what he would have to do, only that he wouldn't have to cross a line.

                The water grew cold. Stiles sighed, out of time. He shut off the shower and toweled himself off. He wondered if having him there would be as stressful to the pack as to him, and what it would mean when he went home. Outside of Peter and his pack, Stiles had no options here. The only other person he'd met had tried to kill him. Scott's pack had worked with Peter before, more than once. Peter had technically helped save all of Beacon Hills during the Wild Hunt. He'd only been interested in saving himself and Malia, but he'd still helped.

                Other Stiles' clothes were tight. Maybe he watched too many shows where witches dressed in dark skinny jeans. Stiles preferred more breathing room. At least the material was a little stretchy. Stiles hadn't grabbed any socks, so he ventured barefoot into the house.

                Malia intercepted him. "Peter went to clean up too. He spent the night down there."

                "Why?"

                "You were sick. The other reasons he gave were lies." She shrugged.

                "What were they?"

                "Lies."

                "No, I mean specifically."

                "We would pester you. You'll heal faster nearer the alpha. He can't rely on us to tell him when you wake."

                "So all those things are completely untrue?"

                "Different kind of lie," Malia said. "You'll get used to it."

                Stiles figured she meant that Peter shared several plausibly true things to cover up his real reasons, in which case, it was just barely more honesty than he would expect from Peter. Rather than pressing the point, he asked, "Am I allowed to eat real food yet?"

                "Yeah." She clapped him on the back and steered Stiles by his shoulder back to the kitchen. She pointed at the pantry and fridge. "Peter says he's almost done. If eggs sounds good to you, wait for him. I'm here to pick up Cora for pancakes, so we'll be leaving."

                "Why don't I get pancakes?" Stiles asked.

                "You can't leave the house yet. If you like being ignored, you can ask Peter to make you pancakes. He's used to ignoring you." She said the last part already leaving the kitchen to join Cora, who had come downstairs.

                "Why can't I leave?" Stiles called after them. Had he not healed fully, or was he a prisoner rather than member of the pack?

                Peter spoke from directly behind Stiles, "Because we haven't set ground rules."

                Stiles neither jumped nor yelped, but he might have moved three feet away from Peter and hit his knee on the cabinet under the counter.

                "Ground rules for what?" Stiles demanded, rubbing at his hurt knee.

                Derek entered and took a seat at the bar counter. He opened a notebook and began writing, ignoring Peter and Stiles both. Peter's eyes narrowed as he watched Derek settle in.

                Peter glared at Derek for several more moments before saying, "Since our goal is to get you home, we need to make sure the other Stiles can return to his place here. You may need to pass for him, or avoid being seen if you can't."

                "Is this going to end with you putting me under house arrest? Because I am not cool with—"

                "No," Peter cut in. "But you will always have a packmate with you when you leave. Other you withdrew significantly after your father died, so avoiding most people won't seem out of character. You still speak to Heather from time to time. Try not to."

                "Heather is alive?" Stiles had known Heather since he was three, but the darach had killed her on his world.

                Peter nodded. "She knows you too well. You dated for years, even after I told you not to. Then you picked a fight with everything that moved for months after the relationship inevitably toppled under the weight of your lies."

                Stiles didn't think that sounded like him. He and Malia had taken breaking up well, considering. But this was a different Stiles, and he'd likely been the only one with dangerous secrets. Stiles said, "You're one to talk about lies."

                "I'm better at them than you are."

                Stiles asked, "Do you know how seriously they dated? If other me is friends with her, I don't want to ruin that by guessing how hard to avoid her and getting it wrong."

                Peter grumbled, rubbing at his temple. "I don't know."

                "Very seriously," Derek put in without looking up from his notebook, though his pen had stopped. "You were dating even before Peter bit Scott but never brought her into the pack. You mostly text her now, so Peter can pull your phone records if you don't mind spying on yourself to learn how to impersonate you."

                Stiles studied Derek, who still hadn't looked at them. Stiles said, "I'm so unaccustomed to clear or helpful answers that I don't know how to respond now."

                "Your phone is in another universe, so it's less helpful than it seems," Derek said.

                "That makes everything better, thanks," Stiles said.

                Peter grumbled again. "Someday I'm going to figure out why adolescents take best to the bite and give real adults the same advantage."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "Like you're not a dramatic mess."

                Derek said, "He prefers to be the only dramatic mess. Unfortunately for him, well, you've met our pack."

                Peter scowled. "Derek, why are you here?"

                "You don't do well with unknowns. You already act differently around him than the other Stiles. I know you made him pack, but he wouldn't be the first if you betrayed him."

                Peter's expression darkened as Derek spoke, though his beta never looked up to see it.

                Stiles asked, "Do I get to hear Peter's dark past?" He suspected Derek meant his sister Laura, but there could be more to it in this universe.

                "No," both Hales answered.

                Peter continued, "Derek's track record is no better, so I wouldn't rely on him too heavily."

                Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm the pack's only human, right? So I'll carry mountain ash and protect myself from the both of you." He wondered if Other Stiles kept any in his room, and if he kept wolfsbane. At this range, both wolves would reach him before he could form a circle. Derek had finally looked up. Stiles thought it time to divert attention and said, "I thought there was going to be breakfast. I want pancakes."

                Peter motioned to Derek. "If you're going to insist on staying, why don't you make yourself useful?"

                Derek shrugged, but he stood and got to work.

                Peter pulled Stiles' attention away from breakfast and Derek. "You didn't agree to what I said. Avoid anyone outside the pack, and keep a packmate with you to intercept anyone who can't take a hint."

                "Fine," Stiles agreed, "but if I want to go out, you'll make someone available to me, not make me wait."

                Peter nodded. The scowl had faded.

                Stiles continued. "Obviously I won't seek them out, but if I encounter the hunters, I think I should be honest about where I'm from. They might be less likely to shoot me if they know I don't have his powers."

                Peters lips quirked but didn't quite reform the scowl. "Or more likely, in Lydia's case. I think she'd like to kill you twice."

                "Allison's in charge though, right?"

                "Technically."

                "So talking to Allison could at least buy me time. I assume Other Me usually has a few more offensive options than I do."

                "Point made, but don't trust them. They're no more like the versions you know than you are like your other self."

                Stiles nodded. He said, "I'll need a phone to keep in touch with you. I assume AT&T doesn't have cross-universe service, so I can't use mine." He pulled out his phone and tried to send a text, just in case. No service.

                Peter raised an eyebrow and pulled a smart phone from his pocket. "The pack's numbers are in it."

                "Oh, good," Stiles said. "I'd started to worry you spent the whole time I was out sleeping at my bedside." He texted Derek a sunglasses emoji to make sure it worked.

                Derek held up his phone to show the emoji had arrived. He had Stiles entered into his phone as Stiles2.

                "Stiles Two?"

                Derek shrugged. "You're the second Stiles I ever met. I thought about Doppelganger."

                "Better than Two." He turned to Peter. "I expect to be entered as Stiles For Whom I Swoon Into Sleep in your phone."

                Instead of looking offended, Peter cocked his head. "I assume you don't remember much. Your throat was healed yesterday, so the ink moved on. It found something else to heal, and the process was much more painful. Derek took your pain as long as he could. The others are less practiced, so I took over."

                "What was it healing?" Stiles asked. He hadn't been hurt again, and didn't feel different from before. If he was lucky, it would have 'healed' the darkness around his heart, but he still felt it. He would always feel it.

                "We don't know for sure, but other you was diagnosed shortly before getting his healing mark. It was _why_ he designed it. The process hurt him too, so it could be the same."

                "Diagnosed with what?" Stiles made his voice hard. He could practically see Peter stringing him along and had no patience for it.

                "Frontotemporal dementia."

                "I don't have it," Stiles insisted. The nogitsune had faked it to scare him. Maybe he hadn't passed through the void as unharmed as everyone thought, and the tattoo had taken care of that.

                "Then maybe it was something else. I said we weren't sure." Peter spoke like he was humoring Stiles, like they all knew better but didn't have to say it.

                Stiles squinted violently at him but didn't point it out. "Does it heal ADHD too, or will you point me to the Adderall?"

                Peter raised an eyebrow but showed no other sign he'd noticed Stiles' anger. "It seems to treat rather than heal. The other Stiles was definitely still affected, but most days he functioned as though he were still taking regular doses."

                "Why not heal it completely? How severe an injury can I recover from? Was having my throat ripped out special because it was first? Does it always take—"

                "One at a time," Peter snapped. "We don't know. Every mark is different, even ones meant for the same thing, and the other Stiles augmented his with other magic. Try not to test it too aggressively."

                "I'll do my best," Stiles said through gritted teeth. Technically, he'd already failed on that account. He held out his wrist, spiral facing up. "And this one? What does it do other than release dopamine or whatever when I touch a packmate?"

                "Nothing of import," Peter answered.

                Derek snorted. "He means we don't know. It feels just like a regular pack, but stronger. You two have a habit of rushing into things when you put your heads together."

                "Us two?"

                Peter answered, "The other Stiles and I developed the ink together."

                Another supernatural ability for Other Stiles. "Just how much—or how many—powers does this guy have?"

                "He dabbles," Peter said.

                Derek dropped a stack of pancakes in front of each of them and settled down with his own plate and the syrup. He said, "Stiles grabbed hold of any kind of magic he could reach, usually regardless of the cost."

                "He did what he had to for his pack," Peter said with a tone of correction.

                Derek tore into his pancakes so aggressively that Stiles nearly thought him the same grumpy wolf Stiles had met after Scott was bitten.

                Stiles asked, "For his pack, or for his alpha?"

                Peter said, "Both," while Derek snickered.

                Stiles trained his eyes on Peter. "Did you order the others to leave the house this morning?"

                "Of course. How is that related?"

                "I'm not sure yet," Stiles admitted.

                "Or you're not ready to ask if I ordered him into more power than he could handle," Peter said. He reached past Stiles plate to tap the spiral on his wrist. "He doesn't have a tattoo here. Keep it covered."

                "Then why'd you put it somewhere so visible?" Stiles asked around a mouthful of pancake.

                Peter only grimaced slightly. "I didn't. The first dose of ink goes into your blood, not your skin. The pack mark appears where it's meant to, or where you want it. We're not sure there's a difference."

                Stiles studied the spiral. Peter—Other Peter—had offered him the bite there. If he closed his eyes, Stiles could almost feel Peter's hand on his wrist, holding Stiles' arm lightly enough for human strength to break his grip. Peter's teeth grew to fangs as he tilted his head closer. Stiles almost didn't move.

                Shaking his head, Stiles turned his attention away from the spiral. "Have you also solved the mystery of how I got here since you had so much time?"

                Peter bit off the word, "No."

                "Ravens can't cross worlds, at least not by their own power," Derek said, "so their presence doesn't actually explain it."

                Stiles mused, "Maybe they're here because something else is."

                "Only the most powerful beings can manage this," Peter said. "Wouldn't we have noticed something like that?"

                Stiles narrowed his eyes, studying Peter. He couldn't think _nothing_ had caused this, but if not a monster, then what? And why couldn't Peter prove it? Unless he had another reason to string Stiles along rather than make suggestions.

                "What about an artifact?" Stiles asked.

                "Like what?" Derek responded.

                Stiles winced. "I was hoping one of you would have an idea."

                "If it was anything we'd heard of, it would be in the other Stiles' files. I've poured through them forwards, backwards, and sideways. There's nothing there." Derek frowned at the leftover syrup on his plate.

                Peter didn't offer anything. Stiles watched him eat a moment before realizing there _was_ an incredibly powerful being who had been present, who may have drawn the ravens to town.

                Stiles said, "Did Other Me do this?"

                "We don't know that," Peter said in exactly the tone he would have used to say yes.

                "He wouldn't leave us on purpose," Derek insisted.

                Stiles said, "But you can't rule out that he did it on accident."

                It hadn't been a question, but Derek shook his head.

                Stiles stood. "I'm gonna go invade my own privacy. Someone get me a new toothbrush."

                Peter rolled his eyes, but neither Hale tried to stop him.

Other Stiles had a lot of secret hiding places, which made up for the apparent blandness of his room. Many of them hid things capable of hurting or killing his packmates. Stiles left most of it where he found it but now carried pouches of mountain ash and wolfsbane in his pockets. He found a few anime wrist bands buried in the sock drawer and pulled one over the tattoo on his wrist, hoping other Stiles hadn't outgrown his Trigun phase.

                There were no photos anywhere in the room. Not on the walls, not in a drawer, not under the bed. He didn't have a desk, probably because his work station was downstairs. He didn't seem to own anything. There was no lacrosse stick, no jersey, no video games, no books. Just clothes and magic dust.

                When he was finished, Stiles opened the bedroom door and called, "Yo, I need a werewolf."

                Scott poked his head down the hall. "Why?"

                Stiles hadn't heard Scott arrive, but he'd been buried in Other Stiles' room for several hours.

                "Can you smell dangerous-to-werewolves substances on me?"

                Scott breathed deeply, moving closer to be sure. "No, but I think Stiles usually warded them so we wouldn't be affected."

                "That makes sense." Not that Stiles understood _how_ warding worked.

                "Do you need anything else? I was about to head home for lunch—Malia too, she's my ride—but we can stick around if you need us."

                "Thanks. I'll be okay. Why doesn't Peter use his copious money to buy his beta a car?"

                Scott wrinkled his nose. "I asked him not to. I'll earn my own money. Besides, my mom would think he's even more creepy if he started buying me things."

                "She doesn't know you spend your time at his house, does she?"

                "She knows he's the alpha, but I let her think I'm mostly with Cora and Malia, which isn't a lie. She's warming up to Derek slowly."

                Malia stepped into the hallway just long enough to grab Scott by the arm and drag him off. "I'm gonna be late. Bye, Stiles."

                "Bye."

                Cora cornered Stiles once they left. "Come on," she said. "You haven't even been outside the house yet."

                The house was in a large clearing completely surrounded by forest. A road led from the front of the house away toward what Stiles assumed was town. Cora led Stiles the opposite way, along a dirt trail.

                Stiles couldn't decide if he was surprised or not that they lived in the middle of nowhere. On the one hand, it fit his mental image of maniacal villain Peter. On the other, the Peter of his world lived in an apartment, or had before they'd thrown him in Eichen. Stiles had never found out if Peter went back to his apartment after that.

                The reached a creek, and Cora motioned for Stiles to sit beside her on a rock where they could watch the water babble by.

                "They were fighting again, weren't they? Derek and Peter." She frowned around the words, eyebrows furrowing down.

                "I don't know that I'd call it fighting."

                Cora gave him the look.

                "Derek just said he was worried Peter wouldn't treat me like pack."

                Cora snorted.

                "I don't know why that's funny."

                "It's not," Cora said. "But Peter could have saved you without making you pack if he used the nemeton."

                "He let me choose," Stiles said. The nemeton would require sacrifice. Stiles wasn't willing to kill someone to heal himself.

                "He's not in the habit of letting people choose."

                Stiles thought back to Peter holding his wrist in the parking garage, asking Stiles if he wanted the bite. He thought about Peter leaning over Stiles beneath the nemeton, asking how Peter should save his life. They were different, but not in every way. "In my experience, Peter always lets me choose."

                Cora shrugged. "The day we understand Peter will be the day werewolves go public with hunters as our PR agents."

                "I can just picture Allison telling people, 'Don't worry. The gold-eyed ones probably haven't killed anyone, and the blue-eyed ones at least feel guilty about it.'"

                "I don't think this scenario can exist without Peter as a mob boss," Cora said.

                "That makes us the mob," Stiles pointed out.

                Cora squinted one eye and pointed a finger gun at Stiles. "Stick 'em up, see."

                "I don't think mobsters say 'see' after every sentence."

                "I do, see."

                Stiles laughed. Cora poked him in the ribs with her finger gun.

                He asked, "Did you really bring me out here just to ask if Derek and Peter were fighting?"

                Cora shrugged. "When Peter's in a bad mood, he starts ordering people around like he's king of the pack instead of just alpha."

                "I don't think that's all," Stiles said.

                Cora growled, "You're basically a stranger. You don't get to think." She stood. "Come on. We should get back."

                Stiles guessed it was normal for the pack to be unsure how to treat him. He wasn't sure how he fit here either. Still, he could do without the whiplash of flipping between treating him like an old friend and an unwelcome stranger.

                He spend most of the evening learning his way around the house, finding more secret hiding spots throughout it, and watching the Hales. Derek and Peter didn't speak much. Peter and Cora mostly rolled their eyes at each other. Derek and Cora smiled and teased each other, acting more like siblings than the versions Stiles knew. They both seemed softer around the edges despite Stiles' suspicions that this pack operated under a more morally-grey worldview than Scott's.


	10. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles speaks to Lydia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First consecutive viewpoint chapters! Don't worry, we'll check back in with the other pack tomorrow.

Stiles lay in his other self's bed. His bed, for the moment. He wondered how long that moment would be. Cold air prickled the skin of his arm. He couldn't remember if he'd closed the window, but the cold was little enough to ignore. The door creaked on its hinges, pushed and pulled by the breeze. Stiles grimaced at the ceiling. Cool air, he could live with. Creepy noises, he could not. He thought he had shut the door.

                With a groan, Stiles pushed himself to sit and swing his legs over the side of the bed.

                "Stiles?" Lydia asked.

                He turned. Lydia sat up and set a hand on his shoulder.

                "Lydia?"

                No, the Lydia here wanted to kill him. This Lydia looked around the room, studying it.

                She said, "Where are we?"

                "My room," Stiles said.

                Lydia narrowed her eyes. " _Your_ room?"

                "For now. It belonged to Other Me."

                A smile lit her face. "Then you _are_ my Stiles."

                "I've begun to suspect I'm a dreaming Stiles."

                The door slammed shut.

                "I think we're connected," Lydia said. "When you were attacked, I had a vision of it, and the other you shared it."

                Stiles squinted at her. "So you're saying you're real even though I'm definitely dreaming?"

                "I have visions sometimes. I know the difference now, and I can tell you're real."

                "I thought your powers were auditory."

                "It's more complicated than that."

                Stiles scrunched his nose for a more pronounced squint. "Sounds like something a dream Lydia would say."

                "Do you dream of me often?"

                "All the time. It's never this boring, so I'll assume this is real." He suspected Lydia didn't care for more details about his usual dreams. She could guess.

                Lydia pursed her lips. Eventually she said, "How did they save you?"

                Stiles lifted his wrist. His dream self had the tattoo, but not the wrist band to cover it. "Peter inducted me into his super secret a cappella group. Membership perks include healing tattoos." He turned his back to her and lifted his shirt to show the ink on his back.

                "It's... interesting." She couldn't quite hide the distaste in her voice.

                "It's ugly," Stiles corrected.

                Lydia laughed. "Hideous."

                "What's other me like?"

                Lydia grimaced.

                "That bad?"

                "Yes." She hesitated before saying more. "He's a darach. He killed my mother."

                No one had mentioned that Other Stiles was a darach. The pack had been too reasonable, so they probably wanted to keep him from learning about things like ritual sacrifice. He didn't have time to wonder what else they were hiding. Lydia was still in front of him, biting her lip and staring at him as she waited for a response.

                Stiles put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her close. He wished he could do more. "You're different here too. When I woke up, she was trying to kill me." That wouldn't be comforting, but he wasn't sure what to say.

                "We despise each other," Lydia said before Stiles could think of something better to say. "Seeing that hatred behind your eyes is heart wrenching."

                "They're trying to kill each other," Stiles agreed. "But you and I are different. Maybe we can stop them."

                "I don't care about them. I just want you to come home." She clung to him and buried her face against his shoulder. Stiles knew she cared, but she was hurt. She would come around.

                "I'll get back to you as soon as I can," he promised.

                Lydia asked, "Have you learned anything that can help?"

                Stiles shook his head. "I think Peter suspects other me did it, though maybe unintentionally. Apparently, he's got some power."

                "That's an understatement," Lydia said. "And it's the first thought he had too, but there's a werespider here who we believe is involved. Her name is Amara, and she's definitely interested in the other Stiles."

                "Werespider?"

                "I didn't know they existed either."

                Stiles shrugged. "There are wereravens here. That's new too." He suspected the other pack had faced a different set of enemies than his had, especially since so much of what happened stemmed from the nemeton.

                Lydia nodded. "We think the ravens and the spider made a deal to trade you. Peter doesn't think either of you is meant to stay human."

                "You found Peter? I thought he was dodging everyone but Malia." Scott and Stiles had worried about tracking him more because Peter could be dangerous than because they thought he'd be a good ally. As useful as he'd been, Peter still had a habit of betraying people.

                Lydia said, "He almost died. I bansheed him."

                "Just be careful if you're going to work with him. It was fine last time, but the one before..."

                "You're working with him too," she countered.

                "Different Peter, but yeah."

                "Is he very different?"

                Stiles twitched his shoulder in a shrug. "He's definitely _a_ Peter."

                "Peter's always been hard to read," Lydia said. She leaned her head against Stiles' shoulder. "I miss you."

                He squeezed her closer. "You too, Lydia."

                "We'll get you home," she promised.

                "If we can talk, we can do it together," Stiles said.

                "I hope we can," Lydia said. "I don't know how this is working."

                "Well, we know it's my dream because you've never seen this room. We also know I have no power, so you're doing all the work. I think that means your bansheeness is letting you visit me in another universe."

                "How does hearing people dying have anything to do with a living person's dreams?"

                "You heard flies when I was possessed by the nogitsune. It would have killed me, but it wasn't my death you were hearing. You heard the Dread Doctors operating on Hayden, and she didn't die either."

                "Yes, she did."

                "Not immediately, and she got better," Stiles said, "so maybe your power isn't just death. Maybe it's a chance to help. And you're helping me now."

                "That's stretching it a little thin, don't you think?"

                "You have death-hearing and a magic scream. Our friends have glowing eyes and super-healing. I think we're allowed to stretch."

                Lydia shook her head, fighting back a smile.

                "Try thinking of me when you fall asleep. You can borrow a picture of me from my dad."

                Lydia raised an eyebrow.

                "Backlit screens are bad for your sleep schedule." Stiles didn't have any physical photos, but he could try looking at the photos on his phone, even if he'd advised Lydia against it. Even if he didn't have powers, he thought seeing her face at night would be comforting.

                The smile won through, though Lydia kept the eyebrow up too. "I'm going to tell the others. Do you have anything you can tell me about the other world, in case they also get hung up on how I'm not supposed to see you?"

                Stiles bit his lip, thinking. "I don't know much yet. I've spent most of my time recovering from having my throat torn out. Oh! The basement of their house in the middle of the woods leads directly into a network of underground caves."

                "Seriously?"

                Stiles shrugged.

                "Whose idea was that?"

                "They didn't say, but if I had to guess, I'd go with mine."

                Lydia looked away, but spoke with sudden heat behind her voice. "He's not like you."

                "We're the same person," Stiles said. Peter had decided they were different too. Stiles hated what Other Stiles had done, but he couldn't help but understand. He'd attacked Scott after one of the chimeras put Stiles' dad in the hospital. Scott hadn't even done anything. He just hadn't been there to protect Noah. Stiles didn't know what he would have done if his father died there.

                Lydia shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "Maybe you started with the same template, but your paths diverged somewhere. You grew into different people."

                Stiles hadn't met his other self and had only other people's descriptions to go on. "I think that means he's someone I could have been."

                Lydia opened her mouth to say something but faded from Stiles' dream before she could. She must have woken up.

                "I'm lucid dreaming," Stiles remembered. He made himself levitate over the bed, but he woke up too.

Stiles lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Lydia didn't fade from his memory like other dreams. Should he tell them? So far, sharing everything he knew had been easy because he hadn't known anything to share.

                He couldn't afford to trust this pack too readily. Working with them, he could manage. But playing nice and going all-in were two different things. He had new information, and he hadn't decided where to draw the line.

                These people weren't his friends, not even Scott. They were strangers, approximations of people he knew, at best. Wolves in wolves clothing, whether they meant to betray him or not. Except Malia was a coyote, so the metaphor sort of fell through when it reached her.

                Stiles shook his head. He had told Lydia that Other Stiles was like him, but not how much. Where Stiles came from, Peter was a traitor and Scott was loyal, but here they were in the same pack, with Peter in charge. Did that mean Scott was a traitor, or that nothing Peter had done was bad enough to drive Scott out?

                Peter took revenge on this world, just like on Stiles'. That was enough for the Scott who Stiles knew.

                Stiles was thinking about it wrong. Who they were didn't matter. He didn't have time to figure them out. He should focus on what they could do with this information. Lydia was in a different universe, safe from any of them. They could only keep Stiles from her by keeping him awake, which could only last so long.

                Peter could enter Stiles' mind. He could reach his claws into Stiles' neck all the way to his dreams and find Lydia there. He could take memories or share them, but Stiles doubted Peter could hurt Lydia. Seeing him would hurt enough. Peter had tortured Lydia, clawed his way through her mind and back to life. She had seen him since then, but not in her mind, not where she thought she was safe.

                Stiles scrubbed his fingers through his hair. If he could talk to Lydia, they could coordinate between packs and share what they found. That benefit outweighed the risk of co-dreaming with Peter.

                He stood and stretched. There was little chance Peter would take Stiles at his word, so he planned to shower and dress before dealing with him. Stiles opened the door.

                He stumbled back. Peter leaned against the wall opposite Stiles' door with his arms crossed.

                Stiles regained his footing. "What the hell?"

                "You've been struggling with something this morning," Peter said, head tilted just enough to be more demanding than curious.

                "Get out of the way, Peter. I need a shower." Stiles crossed his arms but uncrossed them when he realized he'd mirrored Peter.

                Peter frowned.

                Stiles rolled his eyes so hard his head rolled with them. "We'll talk after breakfast."

                Peter tilted his head the other way, eyes narrowing.

                "I have something important to tell you after breakfast," Stiles amended.

                Though his expression didn't soften, Peter nodded and walked away.

                Stiles made a mental note that the pack could hear and smell him at all times. He had lied to werewolves before and could do it again. Now he would have to practice constant control since they—or at least Peter—cared nothing for privacy. It also seemed Peter wasn't above intimidating Stiles despite their friendly chat the day before.

                After breakfast, Peter sat Stiles down in a study. Books lined the walls, but not a single one touched on the occult or supernatural. Stiles spotted three different printings of encyclopedias and wondered if the differences mattered or if Peter just wanted them to take space and look nice. Peter sat behind the desk. There were two chairs in front of it, so Stiles chose one and draped his leg over the side.

                "I think I can talk to my world's Lydia in my dreams," Stiles said.

                "You think?"

                Stiles shrugged. "Anyway, they've got a werespider who prefers Other Me over me."

                Peter's brow furrowed. "A spider?"

                "You know anything about them?"

                Peter shook his head. "We'll look into it." His hand clenched into a fist on his desk. He hadn't said 'no' aloud for his pack to hear.

                "You do know something," Stiles said. He didn't press further, not yet. Stiles had decided how much to share. Now it was Peter's turn. If he decided to share to little, Stiles would deal with that _after_ giving him a chance to be a better Peter.

                Peter smirked, though Stiles would have expected a frown at being challenged. "Very little. Spiders rarely make themselves known. They value secrecy and isolation."

                "So what would make one give those up?"

                "I don't know." He bit off the words like tough jerky.

                "How did you meet one?"

                "What makes you think I have?"

                Stiles kicked his foot through the air where it hung over the arm of the chair. "You don't want to talk about it, for one."

                Peter watched him through narrowed eyes, like squinting could give him a better view. "You're both so different and so similar, it can be hard to reconcile." After a pause, he added, "We couldn't defeat the spider."

                "Was it the same spider? This one is called Amara."

                "She didn't give a name."

                "What did she want?"

                "I don't know. She took one of my betas. The Argents killed him rather than let her have him."

                Peter had never bitten anyone else on Stiles' world, though his claws had turned Kate.

                Stiles asked, "What was his name?"

                "Isaac. What matters is that a werespider's power is rivaled only by a kitsune's. They both grow stronger with age."

                Stiles never liked Isaac, but he was sad to hear he'd died. At least on his world, Isaac lived to run away to France.

                "Stronger how? What kind of power does a werespider have?"

                Peter scowled at the memory. "She was fast, agile, and venomous, but she was cautious too. I don't think she could heal as quickly as a werewolf."

                Stiles chewed his lip, deep in thought. "Lydia thinks the ravens and spider made some kind of trade."

                "The raven alpha did give you a recruitment speech before ripping your throat out, though he gave up too easily."

                "Or knew you could save me." Stiles hesitated before asking, "In my world, you offered me the bite when we were enemies but let me live when I refused. Would killing me have been giving up too easily?"

                "I don't know, Stiles. When I offered you the bite here, Scott was already a member of my pack. It was the only time I've ever seen you refuse power, and I couldn't understand why you did it."

                "Maybe I had a reason to stay human."

                "The ravens are a more pressing matter. We've spotted them only sporadically and can't say for sure how long they've been in town or how much they know about us."

                Stiles sat upright in his chair, bringing both feet to the floor. "What would they gain by swapping Other Me for me me?"

                "Never say 'me me' again." Peter frowned. "You're indisputably the weaker of the two."

                "Thanks."

                "No point getting wry over the truth. Maybe they need you fully human. Stiles' demonic eye could interfere with many things, the bite included."

                "Is it still a bite if it's from a raven? Wouldn't that be the peck?"

                "Do you want the peck, Stiles?"

                "God, no." Stiles shuddered. "But then why does the werespider want the me with the demon eye?"

                "Maybe she needs him to do something instead of become something," Peter suggested. "If they need different versions of you, it stands to reason they have different purposes in mind."

                Stiles could neither prove nor disprove that, so he asked, "Why would they need _me_ badly enough to pull me from another universe. There are lots of humans in the world. And if Amara needed a human with a demon eye, she could just make one. We've met dudes who did basically that before."

                "The void is no easy thing to survive. Don't underestimate how rare you are."

                Stiles frowned. "Rarer than Other Stiles?"

                "I'll ask Derek." Peter stood. "He's grown tired finding nothing about the shifters here. Maybe he'll welcome a change of pace. In the meantime, you and I will work on your complete inability to defend yourself."

                "I've defended myself before," Stiles said. He felt his voice grow cold but didn't care to stop it.

                "By luck and wit, I'm sure. You have no training. When you go home, you can rely on luck, but so long as you are with my pack, you will be trained."

                Stiles scowled at Peter's back as he led Stiles to the basement, but he couldn't say Peter was wrong. Maybe he'd convince someone to take him to buy a metal bat.


	11. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nemeton needs attention.

Stiles beat his forehead against the book spread open on the table in front of him. He'd been doing Derek's job because this world's Derek hadn't stuck around and this world's Stiles didn't have a proper digital archive. If Stiles had to spend any more time with his face buried in paper and ink, it might be better to never make it home.

                Malia tugged him back and grabbed the book. "This was supposed to be in the back-to-shelf stack. It doesn't have anything."

                "Great." Stiles dropped his forehead against the empty table in front of him.

                The air prickled against Stiles' eyelid. He opened his demon eye just enough to catch sight of Lydia's aura wrapping around a bookshelf.

                "Shut it," Scott ordered. "If I saw, someone else could have."

                Stiles complied but rolled his eyes. He'd never felt an aura before, but every time his eyelid itched like that, Lydia arrived. He wondered if it was a banshee thing or a Lydia thing. Either way, his world's Lydia had never been powerful enough to cause it.

                Lydia slid into the chair across from Malia and beside Scott. Without preamble, she whispered, "I can enter our Stiles' dreams and speak to him. I'm not sure how, but I'm sure it was real."

                "That's one way to start a conversation," Stiles noted.

                Scott gave him a look but turned away to ask Lydia, "Is he okay?"

                "Yes. They gave him some kind of healing tattoo."

                That meant Peter had saved him by initiating him into the pack. Stiles didn't expect the bitter sting of jealousy. It was _his_ pack, but he was using the other guy's pack too. Neither of them had much choice.

                "Does he know how he got there?" Scott continued.

                Lydia shook her head. "I think we know more than they do right now."

                Stiles nodded. Amara was here with them. Even if they knew very little, they still had access to a major player that the other world lacked.

                The others turned to Stiles.

                "What?" he asked. He'd only been agreeing with her.

                "Have you had any supernatural dreams too?" Scott asked.

                Stiles scoffed. "Not about him. I have supernatural dreams all the time, so your question is too vague."

                "How?" Malia asked.

                "Blood magic, demon eye, nemeton... all have bad dream warnings in the fine print."

                Lydia asked, "Do we want to know what these dreams are about?"

                "If I dream anything relevant, I'll say so. Mostly it's nightmares, snippets of memory from the demon or visions of sacrifice to the nemeton, that sort of thing. Most of them don't even make sense."

                Scott asked, "You're dreaming a demon's memories, and that doesn't worry you?"

                "It did at first. It doesn't now." Nothing more than sleepless nights had come of the dreams, and the pack could help with those. _His_ pack, anyway.

                Scott ignored him, turning back to Lydia. "Can you talk to Stiles whenever you want?"

                Lydia grimaced. "Too soon to say. I'll try tonight, but I'm not sure if I can choose it or if it was random."

                Scott nodded. "Let us know if we can do anything."

                "I will. For now, I just wanted you to know we may have a chance of reaching him."

                Scott thanked her and walked her out. Stiles took advantage of the time to gather up their books.

                "We have after-hours access," Malia reminded him.

                Stiles made a face at that. "I need to go meditate by the nemeton."

                "I thought that meant sitting really still and concentrating on nothing."

                "If you're implying that's outside my skill set, you're absolutely right, but I still try. The nemeton needs attention unless you know a way to kill it again."

                Scott had returned while Stiles spoke but didn't order them back to work. Stiles doubted Scott would have. He served more as a rallying point than commander for his pack.

                "Hayden and Liam are in the area," Scott said. "We can meet up and see if they found anything."

                Stiles shrugged. He still hadn't met the rest of Scott's pack. Should he open his demon eye to meet them? Scott had probably told them about it, so he couldn't get much fun out of their reactions.

                "Why are those two always in the woods?" Stiles asked.

                "They aren't," Scott said.

                At the same time, Malia said, "They'd be out together anyway, and Mason can't fight if he and Corey run into whatever's hunting werewolves out there."

                Stiles shifted his gaze between Scott and Malia, certain neither had lied. Scott's betas couldn't _always_ be out there, but Malia's explanation covered why they sometimes were. Scott usually seemed more trusting than Malia but had offered less.

                "You've been keeping them away from me," Stiles observed. Scott opened his mouth, but Stiles continued without giving him time to speak, "Don't make excuses. They're safer away from me."

                Scott shook his head. "Why? Are you going to hurt them?"

                "I'm dangerous whether I'm trying or not."

                "We're all dangerous, Stiles."

                "But you didn't choose it. You didn't hurt other people to gain your power." Stiles stared directly into Scott's eyes. He wanted Scott to understand, even if this wasn't his Scott. "I wouldn't change what I've done, but that doesn't mean I can't regret it."

                "Then maybe you don't regret it as much as you think." He met Stiles' gaze and held eye contact. Maybe Scott could forgive what others had done, but he couldn't understand it. The Scott Stiles had grown up with was the same, just he'd never been in a position of power over the people he couldn't understand.

                "Or maybe you've just never had anything worth regretting," Stiles countered.

                "There are things I wish I could change," Scott said, "things I would do differently if I could go back. _That_ is regret."

                "That's a dream. Did you even cause them? Did you choose them? Or would knowing the monster's endgame just have let you save more people? You can't regret something if it's not your fault."

                "You can't regret something if you wouldn't take it back," Scott pressed.

                Malia shoved her way between them. Stiles hadn't realized he and Scott were in each other's faces until she pushed them back. "Stop it. You can't change the past. Regret is a promise to do better in the future, and you're arguing about it in the middle of the library."

                "I guess that settles it, then," Stiles said to cover up his embarrassment. This was why his pack had a strict basement-only rule on supernatural research. Venting frustration stayed private, and no one could discover or track what topics they'd covered without breaching the pack's defenses.

                "Sorry," Scott said, obviously more to Malia than Stiles. He shook his head. "We're all on edge, but I should know better. Let's head to the preserve."

                Malia drove. Stiles sat in the back and watched their dying town roll by.

Two teenagers waited at the nemeton, holding hands. They looked a couple years younger than Stiles. One was a girl with thick, dark hair, and the other a boy with his blue eyes trained on Stiles' face, obviously waiting for something. Stiles grinned and opened his demon eye. The betas had strong auras, though not comparable to Malia or Peter. Stiles guessed they would grow stronger given time. He wondered why _his_ pack hadn't.

                The boy—Liam, he supposed—breathed, "Yeah, that's definitely weird."

                "Weird?" Hayden asked. "Just weird?"

                "Fucked up will do too," Liam amended.

                Stiles widened his grin. His favorite thing about being part demon was that monsters themselves couldn't reconcile his humanity with his eye.

                Malia elbowed Stiles. "Stop enjoying this."

                Stiles shrugged.

                Scott asked, "Have you guys seen anything else?"

                "The spider isn't staying in that cave anymore," Hayden answered. "We don't think she's been there for a while."

                "She used it as a meeting place to keep Peter and us from knowing where she lives," Malia said.

                Hayden nodded. "The problem is we couldn't find any sign of her anywhere else."

                Stiles asked, "Are you all seriously searching for her in a cave in the woods?"

                "Why shouldn't we? That's where she was last seen," Liam said.

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "You know the 'were' in 'werespider' means 'human,' right?"

                Hayden squeezed her eyes shut, exasperated. She sighed, "Amara lives in town, not in a cave."

                Liam said, "Satomi's betas didn't go missing in town. There's still something to find out here."

                "And did you?" Scott asked, though he let no hope into his voice.

                Liam shook his head.

                Scott let out a breath barely too small to be a sigh. "Stiles, you wanted to spend some time with the nemeton."

                "Want and need are different things," Stiles pointed out as he settled in among the roots. "You guys standing around talking helps, actually. Your presence soaks in, if that makes sense."

                "It doesn't," Malia said, but she took a seat beside him. "I thought sacrifice was how you gave a nemeton power. What is this supposed to do?"

                "It doesn't need power," Stiles said. "It needs a course correction. It's energy is connected to you but doesn't align with the pack's because your enemies have been the ones using it. That makes it a murder tree. An evil murder tree."

                "You killed a deer last time." Malia jabbed a finger at him.

                "Because I was cheating to make the tree accept me even though I'm not one of you. Try closing your eyes and emptying your mind."

                "I didn't kill a deer, not for the tree."

                "But you're part of the pack that's tied to the tree."

                Malia looked skeptical but shrugged and closed her eyes. She settled back against the roots, brows furrowed.

                Scott had wandered off with his other betas, leaving Malia to babysit Stiles.

                With a deep breath, Stiles closed his eyes. Malia hadn't been wrong in thinking meditation suited him poorly. He had no intention of putting that kind of effort in today. He didn't need anything from the nemeton, and he had nothing but his time to offer it.

                Stiles thought about how this pack differed from his own. Peter's pack was the Hale pack at its core. They felt like family. Stiles often thought of his packmates like siblings under their smug Uncle Peter's care, even Malia, though Peter was her father. Since she lived with her adoptive father, her stronger relation barely spoiled the illusion.

                Scott's pack was also tightly bound, though clearly friends rather than relatives. They also lacked the advantage of pack tattoos. Stiles wondered if their unity stemmed from the power of a true alpha.

                "How do I know if it's working?" Malia asked.

                "We don't. Just hope really hard and believe."

                Stiles opened his eyes in time to see Malia wrinkle her nose in distaste.

                He shrugged. "Sounds trite, I know. Most magic operates based on your belief that it will. It's why random people don't use it accidentally."

                "Stiles used to explain things to me. They were the sort of things I thought everyone knew, but I realized later most people think he's weird. And some of them were things about murder investigations or ancient civilizations."

                "Sounds like me," Stiles admitted.

                "He never did it as coldly as you."

                "What does that mean?"

                "I'm not sure." She narrowed her eyes.

                "I think you have an idea though," Stiles noted.

                "I think something happened, and it changed you."

                Stiles rolled his eyes, mostly to avoid looking into hers. "Of course something happened. My dad is dead."

                "Don't pretend this is a joke," Malia said. "Scott said we'd work with you. He never said we'd trust you."

                The nemeton's energy pulsed. It was more connected to the pack than they knew. Malia had a hand resting on one of the thick roots. Her thumb traced a groove in its bark.

                "Tell me how he died," she ordered.

                "I don't want to."

                "You said Lydia killed him, but you also said she's with the Argents. Their code is supposed to protect humans."

                "Supposed to," Stiles agreed.

                "Tell me why it didn't."

                The nemeton's energy grew heavy around him. It was thick with resentment but allied with Malia. She had lived in its woods half her life. Her cousin had revived it. The Hales had protected the nemeton's land for years after it was cut down. Stiles had made only a measly offering. He would become pack, or he would become the nemeton's enemy.

                Stiles scowled at the tree. Even if his reading was metaphor—trees had no intent—it made little sense to him. The nemeton had worked with the pack's enemies before.

                "Stiles," Malia snapped. "Talk."

                "She shot him," he said. "It was the last time she used her gun." At least that he's seen.

                "Why did she shoot him?"

                "He pushed me back."

                "She was aiming for you," Malia realized. "It was an accident."

                "She was still trying to kill _me_ ," Stiles snarled.

                Argent had told Lydia to put the gun away. She hadn't cared that there were humans, only that there were Hales. Argent fed her his lines about rabid dogs. He convinced her she needed to fight the pack to save the town. At least he took the blame when she went too far. It wasn't enough, but it was something.

                Malia said, "It was an accident. Why did you kill her mother over an accident?"

                "She took my dad from me," Stiles said. "He died before the ambulance arrived. Argent wouldn't let me tell them I knew who shot my dad. I had to lie for her after she killed him." Argent had lied for Stiles too, technically, but no one at the hospital would have believed Stiles could summon the lightning that scarred Lydia.

                "I asked about _you,_ not Lydia."

                "What aren't you getting, Malia? I don't care why she did it. I care that she murdered my father, and I wanted her to pay."

                "Was it worth it?" she asked.

                "Does it matter?"

                "It does if you would do it again."

                Stiles shook his head. "Lydia deserved the pain, but her mother didn't."

                "That's not an answer."

                "I won't sacrifice anyone else." He almost added, 'unless they deserve it,' but he didn't need to.

                He'd researched darachs since finding out he was one. Scott had probably noticed, though Stiles had tried to be subtle. Back home, Deaton had never explained _how_ Stiles had perverted the nemeton's energy through sacrifice. He must have feared Stiles would tell Peter. It made the tree stronger and would make a pack linked to the tree stronger in turn, but it ate away at the darach's soul until they couldn't tell what they had done was evil. Trees understood morality no more than they felt rage. It was why druids worked so hard to desperately maintain balance. It was why druids who failed never fully recovered.

                When Malia didn't respond, Stiles demanded, "Isn't that enough? What more do you need?"

                "I need Stiles back."

                "I'm working on it." Stiles sneered. He didn't want to be here either. Malia was supposed to be like family to him, but this version barely tolerated him as an ally.

                "He's not just Lydia's anchor." Malia snatched Stiles' wrist and held just tight enough to be uncomfortable. "He's mine."

                "So did you and he...?" Stiles asked to distract her.

                This Malia was stronger than the one in Stiles' pack. He doubted he could break her hold, so he didn't try. Stiles slipped his free hand into his pocket, thankful for once that the other guy's clothes fit loosely enough to make the motion easy even sitting down. His fingers closed around a vial of wolfsbane Stiles had lifted from Deaton's office. He worked off the stopper but held it in his pocket, waiting.

                "Yes," was all she said, but she focused on her memories, not on Stiles' hands.

                Stiles had guessed right after all, except that the other guy had already moved on to Lydia.

                "We're all trying to get him back here," Stiles said. Her grip hadn't loosened yet, but he didn't know what she wanted from him.

                When she spoke, it was in a low whisper. "I know you think we're harmless because we don't kill, but that doesn't mean anyone who challenged us ever got away with it."

                "Are you threatening me? I thought I was cooperating."

                Stiles doubted Scott had put her up to this. He didn't seem the type. More likely, Malia had been waiting too long to interrogate him about Natalie Martin. No one had mentioned it since the day he told them, not even Lydia.

                "Keep cooperating, and I won't need threats."

                "I think you're misunderstanding the nature of a threat. What you mean to say is that if I keep cooperating, you won't need to harm me, which is, by the way, a threat."

                Though he was ready to fight back, Stiles wasn't afraid. Scott's pack didn't kill.

                Malia lifted Stiles' wrist. "You haven't tried to pull back."

                "I'm not very strong, and I don't believe you'll hurt me. I haven't done anything wrong, and I doubt Scott wo—"

                Malia bent his forearm backward.

                Stiles screamed. Malia let go. The nemeton's power seeped through its roots. Stiles reached for his wrist, dropped the wolfsbane. He straightened the bone and pressed it against the stump. His eyes watered. Ink flowed through Stiles' skin, surrounding the break in a black haze. Not all the ink was for healing. He couldn't pick out the pieces that were. It writhed like a living thing around the shredded flesh where his bone had broken through. The bone, black now with ink, knit back together. Meat, muscle, and sinew stretched over it. Skin heavy with ink, patterns shifting even where it made a solid mass, stitched back together. It was done. Stiles pulled the ink back to hide under his clothes.

                Stiles panted. "What the fuck?" he gasped out between ragged breaths. Even with the power from the nemeton, healing so fast had drained him.

                Scott rushed to Stiles side, holding him by the shoulders and looking into his eyes. "What happened?"

                Malia half shrugged.

                "I got cocky," Stiles muttered. He wiggled his fingers. They moved as commanded, without pain.

                Scott pulled Malia away so they could whisper vehemently at each other. Stiles wondered if Scott would do anything even if he won their little argument. Peter's pack enjoyed their petty rebellions because they were family, but when Peter gave a command, they obeyed. Scott's pack had an alpha, but Stiles wasn't sure it had a single leader.

                Hayden knelt beside Stiles and poked at his wrist. She frowned, but in concentration, not anger. "Do you always heal that fast?"

                Stiles shook his head. He had _never_ healed that fast. "The tree helps." Even when he'd used the nemeton on the night he arrived, it had taken all night to finish the healing.

                Liam whispered with a sideways glance at Malia, "Did she seriously break your arm?"

                "She's the scariest part of your pack," Stiles replied. "Maybe even counting Lydia."

                "Lydia once blew up a man's head with her voice," Liam said.

                "But I bet he deserved it," Stiles countered.

                "And you don't?" Hayden asked.

                Stiles shrugged. "Talk shit, get hit, I guess."

                "If you just said that unironically, you deserved it," Hayden said.

                "I haven't done anything more sinister than talk and be sort of annoying since I got here," Stiles insisted. And kill a deer and run on water and steal Peter's memories, but those were for good causes.

                Scott and Malia returned. Scott nodded meaningfully, first to Malia, then Stiles.

                "I'm sorry," Malia said through gritted teeth. "I won't hurt you again unless you deserve it."

                Scott, Stiles noticed, didn't correct her. Stiles gave a thumbs up using his recently broken arm. Then he shoved both hands in his pockets and thought of something to say that would distract them from how much he didn't accept Malia's apology.

                He came up with, "Did you guys mention missing betas earlier?" He remembered something about a beta, though it was hazy and distant.

                "Yes," Scott answered warily.

                "Because Peter fought a werespider once, and it tried to wolfknap his betas." Stiles had forgotten about Isaac. He remembered Isaac had been part of the pack and killed by hunters. He'd forgotten why the hunters killed him despite his golden eyes.

                "Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

                "I couldn't. He fiddled with my memories about the spider. They come slowly, if at all." Stiles tried to picture the werespider but couldn't. Missing betas had unlocked his memory of Isaac, but no more.

                "Why would he do that?" Scott sounded less surprised than determined.

                "He's Peter, so I'm going to go with: I found out something he didn't want me to know. Also we lost, so maybe he's embarrassed."

                "There has to be more to it than that," Malia said. "This is _Peter."_

Scott nodded in agreement.

                "The point," Stiles pressed on, "is she wanted to eat him, sort of. I don't think we ever figured out the 'sort of' part. The Argents killed him rather than let the spider have him."

                "Was it the same spider?" Scott asked.

                "I don't know." Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, trying to picture her face. "I can't remember. If it was, that must be how she found me. If not, then nothing really changes."

                "Except there could be two of them," Malia said.

                "We'll figure it out," Scott promised.

                "I could probably just ask her," Stiles suggested. By the furrowed brows and heavy scowls, he guessed no one liked that plan.


	12. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles try to lure out the ravens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention sooner than I am totally down for constructive criticism. My first response will probably be to explain myself, but good critique can only make my writing better.

Stiles hadn't dreamed of Lydia last night, though he'd studied pictures of her on his old phone before falling asleep. There was too much risk of someone seeing them if he transferred the pictures to his new phone. Stiles rubbed at his eyes and wondered if he should try sleeping again. Somehow, he'd never bothered to study Lydia's sleep schedule.

                "Because that would have been stalking," he reminded himself. He'd had her school schedule memorized though, and that was only slightly less creepy. Maybe a little more, knowing he'd memorized it every year since third grade, long before they became friends.

                "Are you stalking, or am I stalking?" Peter asked, pushing open the door. He didn't step in. Stiles had lined the room with mountain ash, so Peter had to poke the doorknob to even manage what he had.

                "What you're doing is invasion of privacy. I think I locked that," Stiles scolded.

                "You did. Get dressed."

                Stiles scrunched up his face.

                "We're going for a run," Peter added.

                "The hell we are. A morning jog sounds a thousand times too CrossFit for me."

                Peter crossed his arms, though his face remained mostly neutral, maybe a little smug. "It's not CrossFit. It's very basic fitness. It's also bait. We can't find the raven's nest, but they've shown interest in finding you."

                "More like murderous intent."

                Peter rolled his eyes. "I'll be beside you, not stuck up a tree, and the pack will be nearby."

                Stiles had to work to contort his face into greater disdain than before.

                "Or you could live in my house forever, right where I can hear every beat of your heart and smell every drop of sweat on your body."

                "God, how do I ever forget how creepy you are?"

                Peter smirked. "I can be charming when I want. Right now, what I want is to hunt birds." The smirk twisted into a sneer at the end.

                "You mean interrogate birds," Stiles corrected. "Because dead birds can't tell us how I got here."

                Peter sighed in obvious disappointment, but he'd have no cause for disappointment if he disagreed. The smirk returned. "So you agree to go."

                Stiles groaned but rolled out of bed. He dug through Other His dresser until he found a pair of sweats to throw on with a dark red t-shirt that fit like he thought he was Chris Evans as Captain America. Other Him did not buy the right size clothes.

                Peter steered him out of the house and into the woods. They began jogging along a well-worn path. Maybe Peter jogged even when not baiting ravens with Stiles. More likely, Derek or Cora did. Peter didn't seem the type to work for what he could instead steal by waiting in the shadows. Not that Peter could steal fitness, but Stiles was pretty sure werewolf bodies stayed naturally fit, which didn't explain Derek's obsession with working out. Did this world's Derek exercise like the Derek he knew?

                "Stay close," Peter ordered. "I want to be certain you're safe."

                "Your concern truly touches me," Stiles said with every bit of sarcasm he could muster.

                "I should hope so."

                Stiles had no response to that. He tried to focus on his breathing. He'd never been good at running. Coach made the team participate in Cross Country during the lacrosse off season, and it was misery. Stiles usually puked.

                He tried to eye the forest, but it all looked the same to him. Stiles would be the last one to see or hear anything. He switched his focus to Peter, watching for a response to the stimuli Stiles would miss. Peter's eyes scanned the forest. He breathed slowly, not even winded by the pace he set for Stiles. The breaths were deep too, filtering scents for any sign of danger.

                Stiles had worked with Peter before. He had fought against Peter too. Peter was a dangerous, powerful force either way, but he'd lost every time he faced Scott's pack, at least he had on Stiles' world. This Peter had never been Scott's enemy. Stiles worried that had more to do with this world's Scott than its Peter.

                "Why are you staring at me?" Peter asked, turning his sharp eyes on Stiles.

                "I won't see them coming, but I can see you react when you do."

                Peter smiled. It wasn't even a smirk. "The other you tackled the same problem with magic."

                "Other Me could have saved some of that energy."

                "He didn't see it so simply."

                "You mean he wasn't willing to let the pack balance each others' weaknesses and instead went about gathering all the power he could for himself." Werewolves were limited more than any version of Peter would admit.

                Peter's eyes narrowed, more considering than threatening. "You think your other pack has stronger bonds than this one."

                "More balanced," Stiles clarified before Peter could throw a fit. "We have a lot of different strengths. You're all the same, except me."

                Peter nodded. He turned away and picked up the pace. Stiles groaned, careful to keep up. They had slowed while talking. Stiles wasn't a distance runner, or a sprinter, or any kind of runner. Sometimes a run-for-his-life-er, but he'd rather never have to again.

                Peter cocked his head. Stiles pressed as close to Peter as he could get without hugging him. Peter set a hand on his shoulder.

                "They aren't here," Peter said. "But they're nearby. Derek spotted them."

                "Do they know we're here?" Stiles asked. He considered brushing Peter's hand aside. He could feel the false calm seeping through Peter's hand, like he thought Stiles would freak out once the ravens neared. Stiles had faced scarier beasts than birds.

                Peter said, "Hard to say. They may know we're around, but Derek's research indicates their senses aren't as keen as a wolf's."

                "Do you doubt that?" Stiles asked, put off by Peter's wording. He felt something more than reassurance slip into him through Peter's hand, an itch under his skin, like there was more he should know about this.

                "I doubt everything, Stiles."

                With Peter's hand on his shoulder, Stiles could feel that doubt like the same sour distrust in his own gut. He brushed Peter's hand aside.

                "You're trying to calm me down," Stiles accused.

                "Shouldn't I be? Can you say you don't have trouble with anxiety?"

                Stiles scrunched his face in. "Well, your own unease is coming through too, so, thanks."

                Peter crossed his arms and frowned. He looked to the woods. "They're not coming this way. Malia stayed back to watch them while Derek move close enough to report. I want you to decide whether we draw them to you or have the others track them back to their nest."

                "Why let me decide?"

                "Both options work for me right now," Peter admitted without a hint of shame.

                "Do wereravens make nests?"

                "They're staying somewhere. It's not likely to be a literal nest."

                "Too late. Now I'm picturing adults in a giant nest made of sticks."

                Peter growled, though he kept it low. "I asked you to make a decision."

                "As some sort of test, right?" Stiles shook his head and plowed on, not waiting for an answer. "I can play bait any time. We may not see them first again. Go for the nest."

                Peter turned and jogged back to the house without another word. He set a faster pace than he had on their way out. Stiles struggled to keep up. By the time they reached the house, he was panting. Peter pushed Stiles through the door. His touch didn't ooze with excessive calm this time, though it was still familiar and reassuring in a way that Stiles knew would seem strange as soon as Peter broke contact.

                "The house is protected," Peter said. "I still won't leave you alone."

                "Meaning you can't join the others right now."

                "Their goal is to find the nest, not attack it." Peter moved his hand from Stiles' shoulder long enough to snatch at his arm and spin him so they faced each other. "Your heart is beating too fast."

                "We were just running," Stiles pointed out. He left it for Peter to fill in that Stiles wasn't very good at it.

                Peter eyed him.

                "What the hell is suspicious about that? We were running. My heartbeat accelerated due to physical exertion."

                "You've been transported to an alternated universe and don't know how to get home. If you're not worried, then you must know something I don't."

                Stiles bit his lip. "My friends on two worlds are all working to get me home. There's no point in complaining that I'm stuck here."

                Peter led Stiles to the couch and sat beside him. He asked, "Were you able to reach Lydia last night?"

                Stiles shook his head. "I'll try again tonight."

                Peter stared at Stiles a moment before he asked, "What will you do if you can't get home?"

                "I'll keep trying until it works."

                "For how long?"

                "I've been here like a week. I'm not ready for the stuck here forever talk. Last time I got trapped in another world, it was three months."

                "Excuse me?"

                "Oh, I was taken by the Wild Hunt. I'm better now."

                Peter nodded with the look Stiles would imagine him wearing if he'd told him he wrote an essay on the history of circumcision for Economics. He knew because he'd seen that exact look before.

                Then Peter shook his head to clear the look away and said, "You'll never be ready, Stiles. I want a plan, not a surrender. We have a plan to get you home. We're working on it now. I don't like leaving any contingency unexamined."

                "Wow, yeah, that sounds like you. Okay, I stay with the pack and slowly build up to being me instead of play-acting Other Me. Maybe someday even stop wearing stupid anime wrist bands." Though that would mean accepting that he had tattoos now.

                "And within the pack, do you fill the space he left or carve your own?"

                "You mean magic," Stiles realized. "I don't do magic. I can't take his place for you."

                Peter nodded. He looked neither surprised nor pleased.

                "You need someone to do magic," Stiles noted.

                "You already pointed out how he balanced our power single-handedly."

                "But you know I'm not him, not in the ways that matter to you."

                "You don't know what matters to me," Peter snapped.

                "You're not very open a person, Peter, but I'm guessing the safety of your pack matters. You have magical security  to protect your home and your pack, and now you have no one to handle its upkeep."

                "Which is why I need a plan. As a human, you can still work with mountain ash, but how do we use it without trapping the pack?"

                Stiles sighed. "It's possible to build mountain ash into the house's baseboards so the circle can be closed or opened quickly."

                Peter smiled, again with no sign of a smirk. "Progress." That smile unsettled Stiles. At least his world's Peter had the decency to always act exasperated with Stiles' existence.

                "I am going to ask you the worst question," Stiles said. He waited until Peter raised his eyebrows. "Discounting how useful I'm not, do you like this me better than Other Me?"

                Peter's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched and unclenched. "I expected to hate you."

                "So, then, you don't?"

                "Hate you? Not at all."

                "You haven't really answered me," Stiles noted.

                Peter frowned at him so long Stiles thought he wouldn't respond. "You think through the same problems he overpowers. I don't doubt that he could. He just made sure he doesn't need to."

                "Whereas I turned down power and chose to think of another way." Stiles realized he'd turned down Peter for the bite twice now, once on each world. He supposed that meant he'd committed to his powerlessness, so long as he didn't count the giant ugly healing tattoo on his back. "He's as smart as I am," Stiles pointed out. "Only stronger. I _know_ power means a lot to you, Peter. You're... you."

                "Are you trying to convince me to hate you instead?" Peter raised an eyebrow.

                "No, I'm just trying to understand you."

                "Me in general or something more specific?"

                "My question was specific, Peter. You're the one being vague."

                Peter dropped the eyebrow and narrowed his eyes. "You're worried he's worth more than you because he can do more, and you want me to reassure you that he's not."

                "What? No."

                "Good. Because I won't."

                "Not even a little?"

                "I suppose it's useful to see your insecurity. It reminds me how much I need _him_."

                "So you need the reminder?" Stiles asked, knowing Peter expected him to focus on the jab instead.

                Peter hesitated. "It doesn't hurt."

                Peter stared at the ceiling. He clenched his jaw and sneered upward at nothing. Stiles wondered if he should go. It was still possible he'd guessed wrong, and Peter was stringing him along as some sort of game. Except that Peter looked so uncomfortable. Stiles didn't think he was faking that.

                With a sigh that sounded like defeat, Peter lifted his head. "I'm going to touch your hand and use the bond to let you tell if I'm lying."

                "It can do that?"

                He snatched Stiles' hand. "No."

                The lie slithered across the back of Stiles' tongue like he'd spoken it himself.

                "Oh. Cool." Slimy, but cool. He'd never spoken to Peter while sure he was telling the truth before. "You told me it couldn't do anything else." Derek hadn't mentioned this either. No one had.

                "I lied," Peter said as though it were obvious. Maybe it was. Stiles had known better than to trust Peter. It was his own fault if he believed anything Peter told him.

                Peter continued, "You are part of my pack as long as you are here. He was part of my pack. If he returns, he will be again. Neither of you negates the other. If I could have both his power and your strategy in my pack, I would."

                "I don't understand why this requires handholding," Stiles said. Peter had always been greedy for power. Of course he'd want every advantage.

                "Tactically, he makes more sense, but given the choice, I'd keep you."

                The weight of Peter's words sank into Stiles' gut. They were true. After only a week, half of which Stiles spent unconscious, Peter wanted him to stay.

                "Oh," Stiles said. His mouth was dry. If Peter wanted him here, Peter wanted something from him, something he couldn't get from the other Stiles. At least Stiles had the satisfaction of knowing he was right, for what little that was worth.

                "I'll still try to get you home," Peter promised. Stiles didn't spot much room in those words for Peter to wiggle past.

                "Try your best?" Stiles pressed.

                Peter's eye twitched. He'd probably never spoken so openly to anyone in his life, and Stiles had made it clear all he wanted was to leave. "My very best," Peter said, though his eyes were hard and cold as steel.


	13. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spider and the raven both want something from Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in revising later, very emotional conversations, I have discovered I have a thing for writing inappropriate laughter but not clarifying why the character's emotional responses went haywire. I also totally removed several of those to make scenes softer and more genuine. But still, this is a thing I learned about myself in the last couple days. Anyway, watch for the inappropriate laughter in this chapter XP

Stiles leaned against the wall, trying not to stand out. He wore long sleeves so he only had to hide the tattoo on his face. With his demon eye closed, nothing about him should stand out at all. Except that he was holding eight lattes while Lydia flirted with the blue-haired barista. Stiles nodded to a woman in a checkered scarf. She raised an eyebrow and went on her way.

                Lydia finally finished, leaving the barista with a smile and her number. She took a drink from one of the carriers Stiles barely balanced in his hands and led the way.

                "I didn't think she was your type," Stiles said, hoping she'd explain why they had to waste so long in a café.

                Lydia tilted her head. "I was asking for a favor, not a date. The nemeton draws the supernatural."

                Stiles grimaced. "I didn't even get to peek." He looked back, but didn't dare open his demon eye here even if he could see the barista.

                Lydia slapped his shoulder lightly. "Don't."

                He didn't bother telling her he wasn't going to. "At least tell me what she is."

                "She's human. She knows people who aren't."

                "That is less fun." Stiles frowned, picturing the barista in his head. Most of what he had was the hair; he'd have to come back and pay more attention to her face in case she changed her hair. Knowing one of the pack's contacts could be useful. If Lydia's flirting was any indication, the contact needed extra convincing. Maybe she wasn't so much an ally as a free agent. If so, following Lydia had proven useful after all. If things fell through with the pack, Stiles could bribe their barista.

                " _You're_ human," Lydia pointed out.

                "I know people who aren't." He winked the eye that only looked human when he kept its demonic counterpart closed. "But not all of me is human."

                Lydia rolled her eyes.

                "If the barista is human, how do you know she knows monsters?" Stiles asked.

                "When things happen, we try to explain it away, but only the people who don't want to know better believe the excuses. She saw Scott transform and fight a monster in the library," Lydia explained.

                "And immediately became a liaison for the local supernatural?"

                "Once you know to look, there's a lot to see."

                Stiles shrugged. She wasn't wrong.

                "You're sure you don't want anything?" Lydia asked, motioning toward the drinks like she thought he would accept one now that they were leaving.

                "I don't drink coffee."

                "They have more than coffee, and I'd get you a scone or cookie too."

                Stiles wondered if it was meant to be a bribe to make him like her better. Maybe she was just nice. She differed from the Lydia he'd known before in so many other ways. Why not one more? Except that she was being nice to the man who killed her mother on another world.

                "I really need none of that. It's fine." It did remind him he still owed the nemeton cookies, but he hadn't found time for baking.

                Lydia opened the car door for him before walking around to take the driver's seat. Stiles barely managed to get buckled in and situate the lattes so they wouldn't spill before she pulled out of the parking lot. Maybe she saved her aggression for driving.

                "So what is your barista doing for us?" he asked.

                "She knows someone who has traveled between realities but won't say who. She promised to reach out." Lydia kept her eyes on the road as she spoke.

                "How do you just not notice interdimensional travelers on your doorstep?"

                "They don't wear signs," Lydia said, voice tight.

                Stiles stopped. Not that he was moving, but he'd had a retort on the tip of his tongue. As much as he looked at Lydia, he never cared to see her. Back home, she was an enemy, her face the scarred reflection of his own anger. He'd never hurt anyone the way he'd hurt Lydia. Even her mother had suffered less. Here, he spent most of his time watching Lydia's aura, half certain one of those thick ropes of power would reach out and strangle him. But his demon eye was closed now, and something in her voice demanded he _look_ at her.

                Lydia's skin was pale, contrasted by redness and shadows around her eyes. Her lips pursed as she watched the road. They were chapped. A blotchiness showed through her pallor too strongly for her light foundation to hide. She was still beautiful, but tired, haggard, strung thin across the chasm between worlds.

                "Lydia, have you been sleeping?" Stiles had seen such exhaustion before.

                "Of course. I speak to Stiles every night I can find him. They're still watching the ravens." She brushed her hair behind her ear. "He can't get Peter to tell him why they're only watching."

                "That's magic, not sleep," Stiles corrected. She wouldn't be much help to either of him if she wore herself out. Her connection to Stiles' home ran through him to the other guy. Stiles wasn't sure _how,_ but he had a feeling he could use that. It was the only connection he knew of that reached from this world to his.

                "I'm sleeping while I do it," Lydia insisted.

                "Obviously not. You're—"

                A deer ran into the road.

                Lydia slammed the brakes. Tires squealed on asphalt as the car swerved. Stiles opened his eye. A shadow loomed in the woods but scurried away. Trees rushed forward. Or the car did. It smashed against them. Stiles pushed power outward through his right arm. It pressed against the door, keeping it from caving in and crushing him.

                Lydia screamed.

                Glass shattered outward in every direction. She screamed again, and the sound left Stiles' ears ringing. Her aura stretched through the shattered windows. It coiled around Stiles' body.

                Lydia opened the car door and stumbled out. Her blouse and skirt were wet. The lattes had spilled over both of them. She turned back and motioned him to follow. "Stiles, crawl through. Hurry."

                He obeyed, though he jabbed his knee on the center consol. Once he was free, Lydia snatched his hand. He couldn't remember if she'd ever touched him since learning what he'd done. He jerked his hand back.

                "We have to run. She's coming," Lydia warned.

                No time for questions. Lydia's scream had been superhuman, not merely fear of wrecking her car. And that shadow in the trees must have scared the deer onto the road in the first place. Stiles let Lydia lead him into the woods even as a small part of him insisted this was a trick to draw him out and kill him. He reminded himself this was the good Lydia.

                Stiles knew the deep woods well since his pack lived there, but this was just a wooded area reaching into the city. He would be lost if not for Lydia. They came out on an empty street. It was eerie, no one to see in broad daylight. The houses here looked abandoned. Lydia steered through an alley. At its end, she turned away from the city to run for the woods again.

                If Stiles could catch his breath, he'd ask why they headed away from the pack. Lydia breathed deeply, but with no sign of distress of discomfort. Stiles wondered if that was a banshee thing or a cardio thing.

                They reached a house in the woods, and Lydia pounded on the door. A man opened it and squinted at Lydia.

                "Mr. Tate, is Malia home?" Lydia asked with more than a few nervous glances over her shoulder.

                On Stiles' world, Malia still lived with her adoptive father, but Stiles had never visited. He'd never thought to. The pack always met at Peter's house, and Stiles had never questioned it.

                "She has summer classes. Are you okay?"

                "Can we come in anyway?"

                Mr. Tate stepped aside and ushered them in. He scanned the surrounding woods before closing the door, though he couldn't possibly know what he was looking for. "Are you kids in trouble?"

                "Of course not," Lydia said absently, eyes wide as she scanned the room. She snatched a tube of pick-up-sticks from the shelf and pulled the lid off. Instead of colored sticks, ash fell out and rushed straight to the doorway, sealing the house.

                "You _are_ in trouble," Mr. Tate said. "What can I do to help?"

                Lydia pulled Stiles to crouch beneath the windows out of sight. She closed her eyes and gripped Stiles' hand so tight he almost didn't free it this time.

                "I can't hear anything," she growled.

                "Any chance that means I'm not about to die?" Stiles asked.

                "Maybe."

                Mr. Tate cleared his throat. "You realize you're ignoring me, right?"

                "Sorry." Lydia grimaced. "We're hiding. You should too. And call Malia."

                "What should I tell her we're hiding from?"

                Lydia glanced at Stiles, then back to Mr. Tate. "Just tell her we'll need all the help we can get."

                Stiles said, "I want to know too."

                Lydia shushed him. "You only die today if they both reach you, so stay hidden."

                Stiles clenched his teeth but widened his eyes because he _needed_ more information than that. Lydia widened her own eyes in turn and raised her eyebrows. Mr. Tate nodded to himself and left the room. Stiles inched his face up to peek out of the corner of the window.

                The woman from the café, the one with the checkered scarf, crept from tree to tree, hiding from something out of Stiles' line of sight. He tried to move over for a better view, but Lydia snatched him back by the collar of his shirt.

                "Hide," she hissed.

                Stiles sneered but stayed low. With a deep breath, he opened his demon eye, but Lydia slapped his shoulder. He shut it. Lydia nodded.

                So he never saw it coming when the window shattered inward. Amara ricocheted off the mountain ash barrier, but the force of the impact sent shockwaves through the wall. She was only half shifted, maybe the spider-equivalent of a werewolf beta's shift. Lydia tugged Stiles back through the house. The other woman was out of sight now. With the ash blocking her way, Amara turned to find her other opponent.

                Mr. Tate met them in the hallway and motioned them to follow him to the back door. He carried his shotgun. The back door had a window. The shade was mostly pulled down, but past it Stiles saw a familiar checkered scarf.

                Lydia stiffened beside him. "The ash is unbroken," she muttered. "We just have to hold out until Malia gets here."

                Stiles focused his demon eye past the door. He could only see auras this way, but he suspected that would be enough for now. An almost familiar shadow greeted him, pulling light even from the surrounding auras.

                "Wereraven," he said. "Just like the ones back home. Maybe even one of them moved here."

                Looking back toward the front room, Stiles saw the silvery-black web of Amara 's aura. He had seen it before coming to this universe.

                "It's the same spider," he said. His memories were still vague, but he recognized her aura now.

                "Hiding won't help for long," the raven's voice carried through the back door. "She's too strong to defeat head-on and too crafty to outwit with mere mountain ash."

                "Go away," Stiles called in return.

                "I don't have any other options right now." She pounded on the door. The wood splintered but held. They should have put the mountain ash on the outside.

                "I don't know what you're talking about," Stiles said, but Amara's voice drowned out his.

                "You stay away from him!" she screeched. Her aura wrapped around the house and another crash came at the back door. The window shattered.

                The raven's shadow aura faded, strangled by the spider web. It did not disappear entirely. Instead, it moved into the distance as she escaped. Stiles supposed that was something of a victory. Lydia said he only died with both monsters there.

                "You should be more careful," Amara admonished, ducking to peek at them under the window shade.

                Then she, too, left.

                Stiles turned back to Lydia. "What the hell just happened?"

                She turned to look at the door, though she couldn't possibly see either woman. "I'm not sure."

                "That's not the same as having no idea," Stiles argued.

                She pressed her lips into a thin line and stared out the window before answering, "No, it's not."

                Then she made him wait until Scott and Malia arrived. Stiles paced, glass crunching beneath his sneakers. At one point, Malia's father tried to suggest he not walk on glass, so Stiles opened his eye at him until he left the room muttering to himself.

                "Try to act like a human being," Lydia snapped.

                Stiles glared at her. "You spend more than half your time with this lost and worried look on your face. If anyone asks you a question, you stare at things no one else can hear—honestly I'm beginning to think you're powers are visual—for at least a minute before delivering a breathless answer."

                "You're exaggerating," she huffed.

                "I'm really not."

                A knock came from the door. Malia shouted, "Break the line. We can't get in."

                Stiles complied while Lydia readied her lost expression.

                Once inside, Scott demanded, "What happened?"

                Malia started brushing glass off the couch with her bare hands.

                Lydia bit her lip, looking over at Stiles.

                "You're proving my point," Stiles noted.

                Lydia narrowed her eyes. "The werespider and a wereraven fought over Stiles. I'm not sure which one attacked us in the first place. If they both reach him at the same time, they will kill him."

                "Really? That's it? You couldn't talk about this earlier?" Stiles growled. "She had her banshee sound-vision to tell her about my dying, I think. She looked more vague than usual."

                " That's not 'it,'" Lydia snapped. "There's something they want you to do. I can hear them egging you on, but I don't know if they want the same thing or different things. I keep hearing the word 'displacement.' And you're going to die if you help either of them."

                "Then I'll help neither."

                "I don't think it's that simple. I think you've already started."

                "How?"

                Lydia shook her head. "I don't know. I only know you could have died today, but the closer you get to helping them, the closer you get to dying."

                "And I've already started." Stiles clenched one hand into a fist and squeezed the other around it. "So we figure out what it is, and I stop. You've already helped me avoid death today. We can do it again."

                Lydia frowned delicately. "We can't take them lightly. You saw how easily Amara beat Peter."

                Peter had been careless, but Stiles didn't argue.

                Scott said, "Lydia's right." He used his firm but gentle voice.

                Stiles opened and raised his hands. "What did I do to convince you all that I constantly endanger my own life for kicks?"

                Lydia pointed at his face. "Might want to close the demon eye before asking that."

                "I've had it closed all day," Stiles complained.

                "And?"

                "And it get's restless."

                "Your eye," Malia said, voice flat. "Get's restless."

                Stiles groaned. "The rest of me gets restless too. I've been here two weeks now, and most of that has been in that damn library. Pretty sure the librarian thinks I'm trying to make a move on her before my pass expires." She'd offered him a pass extension, so maybe she meant to make a move back.

                "Are you?" Malia asked like that was anything reasonable.

                "No, I'm not making a move on anyone." He was trying to get home.

                "Not even a small move?" Her tone had turned accusing.

                "No."

                Malia narrowed her eyes.

                Stiles cleared his throat. "To be clear, in this universe 'making a move' refers to flirting, right?"

                "Yes," Scott assure him.

                Lydia added, "You volunteered to get coffee with me today. You've made a habit of volunteering to stay near me then trying not to look at my face. I know it's paranoid, but we need to rule out ulterior motives."

                As if staying near the only link to his world was an ulterior motive.

                "Uh-huh." Stiles trained his eyes on Malia, and she stared back unabashed. "If I was going to woo anyone, it'd be Scott. He's in charge but less terrifying than either of you."

                Scott said, "I'm flattered, but you're not my type."

                Stiles shrugged. His world's Scott had always ignored Stiles' half-joking advances too.

                Mr. Tate approached with a broom and a drawn out sigh. "Would you kids banter somewhere else? I need to clean the hazardous glass shards from my living room."

                "Sorry," Lydia said with a wince. "Thank you for letting us hide here."

                "Any time. Your lives are more important than a window." He didn't quite meet her eyes, as if embarrassed to receive gratitude.

                "Dad, I can clean the glass," Malia said. "What if you cut yourself?"

                "I know how to clean up, Malia. You can help me cover the window later. Right now, I think your friends need you."

                Malia hesitated a moment but nodded and turned back to Lydia. "Where's your car? Do you need a ride?"

                Lydia accepted even though they could have returned they way they came. Did she think Amara or the raven were still nearby, or did she just not want to run anymore? She and Stiles filled in the details of what had happened as Malia drove, though there wasn't much to tell. They finished even before reaching Lydia's car.

                "You didn't answer my implied questions," Lydia told Stiles. They shared the back seat, so he couldn't really ignore or avoid her.

                "That's what you get for implying instead of asking," Stiles said.

                Lydia leaned forward, eyes wide, aura writhing around him.

                Stiles said, "You're part of the pack, and you can tell before someone dies. Staying near you is just good sense. Besides, you're not that much like other you. Or, at least when you get scary, I'm mostly certain you won't kill me. Malia might. You would at least think about it really hard first. Maybe I should be spending all my time with Scott after all."

                "You do ramble like Stiles when you're nervous," Lydia said.

                "Who says I'm nervous? Maybe I ramble when I'm comfortable or bored."

                Scott said, "Those are probably both true, but I can tell when you're nervous."

                "So can I," Malia said. "You smell nervous a lot."

                Lydia gave him a pitying look. "I can't smell it, but I can tell too. You emote just like him, and I could always read him."

                "I feel so betrayed by all of you but also by myself right now," Stiles said. If he made it a joke, he may not have to answer.

                "Shit," Scott growled.

                Stiles whipped his gaze forward. They'd reached Lydia's car. The wereraven sat atop it, fiddling with her scarf. It seemed Stiles wouldn't have to answer questions after all.

                Lydia opened her door and stepped out like she hadn't just highlighted how dangerous this woman was.

                "What are you doing?" Stiles asked.

                Scott and Malia followed her without question. How could this pack trust so blindly? They'd known Lydia a long time, so maybe it wasn't blind so much as out of Stiles' view. Stiles scrambled out rather than be left behind. If they chose to run, he'd lose time and get caught.

                Lydia said, "I think we're safe for now. She might have answers."

                _I always trust tricksters for my answers,_ Stiles thought but was wise enough not to say aloud.

                The raven jumped down to greet them standing. "We met under less than ideal circumstances," she began.

                "Pretty sure you just tried to kill me," Stiles corrected.

                The raven frowned softly. "I tried to keep you free of the spider's web."

                "Because death is a freedom unto itself?" Stiles suggested.

                She hissed, "Do you even know what she wants of you?"

                Stiles shrugged and smirked like he didn't care. It generally worked for him. Bad guys hated when you 'failed to appreciate the severity of the situation.' It made them sloppy, so long as their name wasn't Chris Argent. Chris didn't know how to make mistakes and had to rely on other hunters to screw up for him.

                "Are you going to tell us?" Malia asked after a moment.

                The raven only glared at her.

                Lydia asked, "What does 'displacement' mean?" Her voice was casual, like she had a question for an old acquaintance.

                The raven narrowed her eyes and darted looks into the forest on either side. "Do you know or don't you?"

                "Pretend we don't," Lydia suggested.

                "Pretend we don't know anything," Scott agreed. The way they said it made it seem like they knew everything and wanted to test the raven's honesty.

                The woman shook her head. "Your friend is from a different universe. Him being here is displacement, and the spider feeds on the energy it creates."

                "Then how do I get home?" Stiles asked.

                "You're part void demon. Figure it out."

                Lydia asked, "Who are you?"

                "My name is Lair."

                Lydia raised her eyebrows, waiting for more.

                Lair bristled. "I'm speaking to you as a favor to Gwen. You have no claim to more." Her aura writhed with agitation, darkness spreading out around her. With a better view of it, Stiles confirmed he'd seen it before.

                "You're displaced too," Stiles accused. "So why don't _you_ feed her?"

                Lair's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in on his demon eye. "I _am._ We both are. But she wants something more from you."

                Malia demanded, "What does she want?" When Lair didn't answer, Malia bared her claws to drive the question home.

                Lair eyed them, debating what to say. "I'm not certain how it works. Something to do with your demon eye, maybe. There are some people she can gain more from than others, people who are worth more than dropping into another dimension to live out their lives emitting displacement energy. The difference between versions of you is the eye, right? And you're the one she picked."

                Amara hadn't known why the other guy didn't work, so Stiles wasn't sure she chose him for the eye. Everyone assumed it was the source of his power, but he'd been strong enough to kill the nightmare before he took its eye. Stiles suspected Lair was the one who wanted his eye.

                "What else do you know about her?" Malia asked, claws still ready.

                "Not much. We didn't exactly chat when she dropped me here. If I knew how she did it, I'd be back home."

                Stiles said, "I thought ravens could hitch rides."

                Lair twisted her mouth with distaste. "It's not that simple."

                "Enlighten us, then," Stiles ordered.

                "Enlighten yourselves," she spat.

                "What is it _you_ want with me?" Stiles asked.

                Lydia said helping would kill Stiles. Giving his eye to Lair would certainly manage that.

                "Other than to kill you to foil her nasty spider plots?" She smirked like there was no danger in threatening him in front of the pack. He supposed there wasn't.

                "Yes, other than that." Stiles scowled.

                "That's about it."

                "You're lying," Scott said.

                Lair groaned, but it was overplayed. "Werewolves." She shook her head. "There's a chance I could use you to get home. Can you blame me for that?"

                "Does that mean I can get home?" Stiles asked before he could stop himself even though the odds were low. If _he_ could do it, he would survive.

                "I'm counting on it, aren't I?"

                "Unless you kill me to keep me from helping the werespider."

                Lair shrugged. "Better you than me."

                Stiles frowned. He knew she was lying. She'd let Scott catch her in a lie to make it seem like they could, but she wasn't just any shapeshifter. She was a trickster.

                "How do I do it?" he asked.

                "I don't know. It's not something I can do, just something I hope to benefit from." Lair raised one shoulder in a half-shrug.

                Another lie. She wanted to take the eye from Stiles' face and ride the nightmare's growing energy back home as it reconstructed itself. That meant she didn't know about his binding.  

                Stiles wasn't sure how to deal with something he couldn't blast with lightning. To be fair, he hadn't tried blasting her yet, but Scott's pack operated differently than Peter's. They would get mad at Stiles for attacking when there was any chance of talking. He had promised not to kill.

                Stiles asked, "If we got home, what's to stop Amara from following and bringing us back?"

                "I don't know about you, but I plan on running," Lair answered.

                Lydia asked, "If you really want to go home, why jeopardize that by killing Stiles? And if you don't really care to go home, why bother staying here at all?"

                "I have tiers of priorities. Like you all want me to tell you things, so we're not fighting. But if I attacked, you would fight back." Lair shrugged.

                Based on what she'd said so far, Stiles guessed stopping Amara ranked above getting home, but only if the spider's threat was eminent. Maybe Lair still thought she could keep Stiles away from Amara. Maybe she thought he would agree to help her. Maybe it was too soon to kill him because she didn't have his eye.

                Stiles hadn't fought either shifter today. He and Lydia had only run. Maybe neither one had actually been attacking, only herding him, testing the waters. He hadn't had to fight because they never struck, not because Lydia outmaneuvered them. Stiles gritted his teeth and tried not to accuse Lair of anything that would force her to attack.

                Lydia said, "I think you'd be safest if you left town so the werespider can't reach you."

                Scott eyed Stiles, breathing deeply. He said. "We wouldn't want you to get hurt. We'll take care of Amara."

                "I can't get home if I leave," Lair argued.

                "She can't be the only one in the world who can cross the void. Find someone who isn't trying to kill you, and buy their help," Lydia suggested. "Just do it far away from us."

                Scott's eyes glowed red. He stepped forward. "Go. Now."

                With a sneer, Lair jogged into the woods. Scott stared into the trees as her aura faded with distance. He watched long after Stiles couldn't see her anymore.

                Lydia set a hand on Stiles' shoulder, "Are you okay?"

                Stiles shrugged her hand off. "I think the reason she didn't try to kill me today is that she wasn't ready to, not that we stopped her."

                "Is that why your eye is so angry?" Malia asked. "Angrier than usual, I mean."

                Stiles had never known the eye to reflect his emotions, but he also couldn't see it. He shrugged.

                Lydia pushed him toward the car and pointed to the its mirror. "Humor me," she said.

                Stiles bent down and looked at his eye. It seemed to burn, churning with darkness and fire. That was normal. Red veins ran through what little remained of the white. They pulsed as he watched. That, too, was normal. Hairline cracks ran outward in the skin of his eyelids, like barely cooled earth sitting in plates over molten rock. That was leakage. The skin should be his own.

                "Shit," he muttered, pulling the binding into place to find which line he'd jumbled. Moving his ink was convenient, but it could be hard to keep track of how it was supposed to sit. He knew now to expect an extra price for any power he gained by murdering another human. He hadn't at the time.

                Ink settled into place, covering more than half his face. In some places, it almost looked like text, if illegible, like seeing writing in a foreign language. Other portions of ink formed spirals and lines, apparently abstract accompaniment to the horizontal flow. The ink on his cheek below the eye showed grey, not black, along a short line ending in an upward swoop. A dot within the curve was missing.

                 Stiles sent the rest of his ink to its natural places. He'd shifted it while in danger and must have lost track of some. Once the rest was in place, the part he'd lost would either return to his face, or linger, aimless, on his back. Everything settled into place.

                Everything settled into place.

                Everything.

                Stiles hadn't lost track of his ink. He'd lost it entirely.

                "I am so fucked."

                The binding was fraying. He didn't have more ink to repair it. He wasn't sure it could be repaired even if he did. The binding was absolute. Had been absolute. Experts had judged it absolute. They had been wrong. The demon eye had consumed part of the spell holding it in place. How long before it took the rest?

                Stiles had created the ink. He could do it again. Except that he'd used the nemeton. Here they had a stump. He'd used Peter's blood, his alpha's blood. Here, they had a Peter, and they had an alpha. Separately.

                "What does it mean, Stiles?" Scott asked.

                Stiles clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. "The binding is fraying. The demon is eating away the spell I made to hold its eye in my face."

                "How do we fix it?" Scott asked.

                Stiles shook his head. "I don't know yet."

                "What if we took it out?" Malia asked.

                "I wouldn't survive that," Stiles said. "The binding is written to kill the demon if I die or if the eye is removed. Killing the demon while it's in my face would also kill me. Even with the nemeton, I wouldn't be able to heal fast enough."

                "Not even if we did it really fast?"

                "If the eye was severed, the demon would reform its body, so I made sure that could never happen." Stiles jerked back from his reflection. There was nothing more he could see.

                Scott asked, "What was your backup plan? Even if it was specific to your world, we may be able to recreate it here."

                "This was never meant to weaken," Stiles said.

                "You... have to have some idea." Scott struggled to explain. "You're Stiles. I mean, you're not, but you still are. You always have a plan."

                "I didn't have time for a plan when I did this, so I made it as strong as I could," Stiles insisted. He glared at Scott, who still looked lost. "We have different skill sets." Stiles threw his hands in the air when that didn't get through to Scott either. "Take me to your Deaton and see if he feels like being useful today."

                He doubted Deaton could help whether he wanted to or not. Stiles had written such an advanced—or 'unique,' as those who didn't want to admit their ignorance put it—binding that no one on his own world had been able to decipher all of it. Still, they had ruled it unbreakable. Whatever weakness the demon had found must have hidden in the portions only Stiles could read.

Stiles was desperate, so half an hour later, he endured Deaton shining a light in his demon eye. Deaton switched to the human eye, then back again.

                "Hmm." Deaton didn't share what that meant.

                Stiles glared openly. He had it on good authority that the demon eye made his glares particularly threatening. Cora had laughed when she'd said it though.

                "I can't find any flaws in your work, Stiles," Deaton said at last.

                "Then what _can_ you find?" Stiles demanded.

                "It was foolish to put a demon inside your body in the first place. The power is not worth the cost."

                "Don't care. Past is done. What do I do now?" Stiles leaned forward. If Deaton could say something to give Stiles his own idea, that would be enough.

                "I don't know," Deaton admitted.

                Stiles grumbled, "Big surprise," loud enough everyone could hear.

                He hopped down from Deaton's table and stormed out the door. Lydia slept in a chair in the waiting room. She wasn't getting enough sleep. How could she help get him home if she collapsed from exhaustion?

                _You're supposed to care about her, not just you,_ Stiles reminded himself.

                He knew he wasn't a good person, and he'd gathered by now that the other guy was better. That was why Stiles' pack accepted a doppelganger while this pack had no choice but to hold Stiles at arm's length. Still, Stiles wasn't sure why it bothered him. He'd stopped caring about being a person when his father died.

                Stiles took a seat a few chairs down from Lydia. His leg bounced as he waited, but he didn't let his foot tap. He kept his finger tapping to fabric, away from wood.

                The ink needed Peter's blood for its power and connection to Stiles. Peter was a werewolf alpha, Stiles' alpha. No one here was close to Stiles, and his own blood had no power.

                It would take too long to become a member of this pack, which meant he couldn't make Scott his alpha and use his blood. Forming that strong a connection might require Scott give up on the other guy, and no one here would agree to that.

                Lydia had formed some kind of connection reaching through Stiles to the other guy when they shared the vision of his near-death. Stiles had researched banshees once he found out Lydia was one on his world, though he'd never been interested in more than seeing if a curse would stick to her (it wouldn't). Stiles wasn't sure how a banshee would affect the binding. Banshees were harbingers of death; though, to be fair, Stiles had heard werewolves described as rabid beasts.

                A banshee had the power to defend herself, not just a connection to death. Defense was what Stiles needed, defense from the monster he taken into himself. The other part of a banshee's power was really just a warning system. Warnings were useful. Lydia had already saved his life today.

                But he doubted wolf and banshee blood would mix. The binding would refuse amendment even if the blood matched. At best, Stiles would buy more time, but eventually the rate of deterioration would exceed the rate at which he could repair the tattoo.

                Scott came out and stood in front of Stiles with his arms crossed like a disappointed father. "He's going to keep looking. I texted some other allies. No one knows anything yet, but we'll all keep looking."

                "Okay," Stiles said. Others on his world had already studied the binding, and they'd been wrong. He should have realized their praise had covered their ignorance.

                "But he does know something about displacement," Scott added, taking the seat beside Stiles. "It's usually temporary. People are phased into another dimension for a short while, and then return home, usually never aware they were gone. It's closely tied to dreaming, when your mind can reach to other worlds. He thinks that's how Lydia can speak to the other you. Banshees are predisposed toward displacement anyway. It's tied to how they see the future."

                "I'm guessing none of those examples are strong enough to feed a werespider."

                "They are, actually. Unless the spider is very, very old. Their appetites grow with age, and they can die of starvation. That's probably why she took you, and why she wants more from you."

                "She doesn't want to die." Stiles chuckled bitterly.

                "We'll figure something out," Scott promised. He glanced over to Lydia. "Is it okay if we wait a little while before leaving? Malia wanted to talk to Deaton anyway."

                "About what?"

                "She didn't say and asked me not to listen in."

                "And you just... agreed?"

                Scott managed not to look too incredulous. "Yeah. We're friends. We have to trust each other, and we also have to respect each other."

                Stiles snorted. "In my pack, we're family. We love and protect each other, but privacy is for humans."

                "You're human, Stiles."

                "Apparently not human enough." Stiles tapped his tattooed cheek below the demon eye.

                Scott set his hand over Stiles' on the arm of the chair. "It doesn't matter if you're human or werewolf or anything else. You're still a person."

                "Not a very good one."

                "Then be better." Scott looked into Stiles' eyes, sincerity written on every feature. "We can help you."

                "No part of you thinks I'm too far gone for that?" Stiles frowned. He didn't see how Scott could have faith in him. They'd known each other for two weeks and revealed that Stiles was a darach who ritually sacrificed Lydia's mother.

                "I don't believe a person can be so far gone they can't turn back. It's never too late to start," Scott said, leaning forward to be sure Stiles looked him in the eye. "It's not too late for you."


	14. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack moves in on the ravens' nest.

Stiles stayed behind Peter. Leaning over to peek past his shoulder counted as staying behind him. Even so, Stiles couldn't see much from their vantage in the tree line. The ravens had rented a hotel room at the edge of town, literally adjacent to the forest. Derek said hikers tended to use those rooms. So did people who couldn't afford rooms farther into town or didn't want to be seen.

                "Sit still," Peter snapped in a whisper. "I still don't think you should be here."

                "I'm not supposed to be alone, remember? So I have to be here, unless you wanted to sit at home with me while your betas do the work." Stiles wasn't about to wait it out while the pack captured one of the ravens. He knew Peter wasn't either.

                "Scott would have stayed with you." Peter barely spared a glance for Stiles. He kept his eyes on the street by the hotel.

                "Without Scott in the field, we wouldn't know the hunters were coming, and we'd be caught with our pants down." Stiles wondered if Scott had been spying on Allison. He used to do that on Stiles' world.

                "Someone else would have noticed them too."

                "Didn't happen. Can't prove it."

                Peter pushed Stiles away from his shoulder. "Focus. We won't have a second chance if you mess this up."

                "Aw, Peter, I thought you were going to protect me."

                "If you get me killed, what I'll do is haunt you." Peter's eyes flashed. "Now, focus. They'll be here any moment."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "You'll hear them before I see them."

                "Not if you're drowning them out. Be quiet."

                Stiles shrugged. He tapped a finger against his leg. Stiles tried not to feel like he was creeping on Peter as he watched Peter's eyebrows furrow down in concentration. His beard looked overgrown today, like he hadn't had time to maintain his Perfect Hollywood Stubble this morning. Peter kept rolling his shoulders, impatience or stiffness.

                Unless... was he nervous?

                "They're coming," Peter whispered. "Remember, speak logically and only to Allison. No emotion. No Lydia. Try not to even look at Lydia."

                "Sure," Stiles lied. He wished they'd gone after the ravens a day or an hour sooner to avoid the hunters. He wished a lot of things, but they couldn't just let the hunters have the ravens, so now they had to do this all wrong. Stiles tugged Peter out of the bushes.

                An older woman was passing by walking her dog. She eyed the two men, then the bushes. With a sniff, she turned and walked her dog back the way they'd come.

                Stiles didn't have time to watch her go. Peter pulled him along. It was too late to back out now, Probably had been for a while. They walked together toward the hotel as if ready to confront the wereravens with no idea the hunters had neared. Peter took Stiles' hand and tugged him back like he'd changed his mind, like he'd just noticed the hunters.

                Allison and Lydia turned the corner just in time to see. They froze. Stiles stumbled very convincingly since it was only half fake. Peter tugged him back up by his arm and caught Stiles against his chest. Stiles rubbed his shoulder. Peter could have let him trip. That wouldn't foil any plan.

                "What the hell are you doing here?" Lydia demanded. She reached a hand under her jacket but didn't draw it back out.

                "I wanted to adopt a bird," Stiles said.

                Peter grunted.

                "The pet store is farther into town," Allison advised. Her eyes darted to Peter and held there.

                "I don't think their birds know much about interdimensional travel," Stiles said.

                "New hobby?" Allison gave a tight smile.

                A man stepped out of his hotel room. He walked to the vending machine and bought a bag of chips. The machine tried to keep it, but the man gave it a good shake. He returned to his room with his chips.

                "I just want to get home," Stiles said when the man was gone.

                Allison looked at Lydia. When Lydia turned her head, the scarred side of her face was toward Stiles. He'd seen it before, but in poor lighting. It looked like lightning had struck, probably her shoulder, and the wound had spread to her face. It probably covered her torso and neck too, but she kept much of her skin covered. Allison nodded, and they both turned back to Stiles.

                "You're not going home," Lydia said, a wicked grin spreading over her face. "The ravens can't help you." Everyone had talked like Lydia would lose all reason at the sight of him. She didn't seem calm, exactly, but she was in control. It was the kind of control you found riding a wave of chaos. Stiles remembered it well, no matter how hard he wished to forget.

                Peter still held Stiles' hand, so Stiles squeezed it hard. This was a trap. They needed to leave. He let himself feel the panic so Peter could smell it on him.

                Lydia laughed with no hint of joy. "I was there when you switched places. I didn't understand at first, but I know now you're not him, which means this world is safe from him. You are never going home."

                "So, you're cool with condemning another world to dealing with him?" Stiles asked. Peter must have missed or misunderstood his signal. Or they were already surrounded.

                "Yes." Lydia hurled the word like a knife.

                Allison said, "Until we know you're a killer, our code protects you, Stiles. But not Peter."

                Still, Peter held his ground. "We can't exactly fight here," he pointed out.

                "You can't wait here forever," Allison said, "and it will get dark eventually."

                Lydia added, "I don't think this Stiles is as... helpful as your old one."

                Stiles turned his back to her, but he had to tilt Peter's head with a hand on his cheek to make him look away from the hunters. "Follow me," Stiles said. He squeezed Peter's hand, this time to assure him he had a plan.

                The ravens' rooms were on the first floor, only several meters away. Allison and Lydia followed but kept out of arms reach. No one answered when Stiles knocked on the door.

                "They're in," Peter confirmed.

                So Stiles began knocking continuously. He switched hands when his knuckles got sore. Just over a minute in, he started tapping out rhythms to keep himself entertained. Peter stood with his back against Stiles' so he could see the hunters and keep them at bay.

                The door swung inward. The man who had almost killed Stiles dragged him forward. Peter forced his way in and slammed the door behind them. Stiles locked it. Peter set his claws against the raven's throat until he let go of Stiles.

                The man took a step back. He was tall, imposing in a way Stiles wouldn't have expected from a trickster bird. The other two ravens in the room fit Stiles' mental image better, lean and lithe, built for speed and agility rather than force.

                "We've been looking for you, Stiles," the raven's alpha said. His voice was deep. He hadn't chosen a threatening tone, but Stiles remembered that voice from the night he was attacked more clearly than he remembered the man's angular face.

                "I found you first," Stiles said, pointing his finger in the bird-man's face. "And I'm guessing if you had a secret exit, this room would already be empty."

                "So you _did_ know you were surrounded," the young man on the bed said. He had slicked-back red hair and a pierced lip.

                "Introductions," Stiles suggested. "I'm Stiles. This is Peter. Our good friends outside are probably going to kill us all."

                The raven's leader cocked his head with a smirk. "Call me Jacob."

                The redheaded raven rolled his eyes but raised a hand and said, "Merc."

                The last raven stood in the corner farthest from the door with her arms crossed. She had dark skin and close-cropped hair. Her eyes lingered on Jacob for a long moment before she spoke. "I'm opposed to this course of action, but you can call me Piper for short."

                "Great," Stiles said. "Now I know you have a plan to escape the hunters, or you wouldn't have knowingly let them surround you. We need in."

                Merc cocked an eyebrow. "You're surrounded too, genius."

                "But I'm a powerless human whose friends are all gullible wolves. You're tricksters. I doubt you often get tricked yourselves."

                Piper gave him a flat look, obviously unimpressed. Merc smirked though, and Jacob eyed Stiles like he expected to find some hidden meaning in Stiles' reasoning.

                Jacob crossed his arms, and Stiles couldn't tell if it was casual or meant to 'casually' show off his biceps. "Tell me how we're supposed to escape then."

                "I don't know. That's your job." Stiles held his hands up in front of him.

                Jacob cocked his head the other way. "Last time we met, killing you was my job."

                If Jacob had known about Stiles so soon after he arrived, it stood to reason he'd already known about Peter and his pack. "You knew Peter would save me," Stiles said. "He even did it the way you most wanted."

                The bite would have precluded becoming a raven. Sacrifice would have strengthened Stiles' connection to the nemeton rather than the void. Jacob had approached Stiles on a recruitment mission, and bought time to plan their next move while Stiles recovered from the attack. The bite and sacrifice would also both have been faster. Stiles wondered if they had found the ravens at all, or if they'd been lured here from the start.

                Merc folded a dollar bill into a paper plane and threw it to Piper.

                "Really?" Stiles asked.

                Piper shrugged.

                Merc said, "Gotta entertain ourselves somehow."

                Jacob spread his hands. "We can turn into birds, Stiles. Has it occurred to you that our plan is to leave you behind here?"

                Peter growled, "You realize I can hear lies, correct?"

                "Can you? Where is the lie?" Jacob's smug grin was echoed on Merc's face. Piper rolled her eyes.

                Peter hesitated.

                Stiles wondered if it was possible to hear lies from tricksters. Even Stiles could lie to werewolves sometimes. If Peter hadn't thought to doubt his hearing, he should have answered that leaving them behind was the lie. He and Stiles had seen Jacob turn into a raven the night he attacked.

                "All of it was a lie," Peter said with confidence that Stiles couldn't see a flaw in even though it couldn't be real, not against tricksters. "Either your friends don't share your skill, or I didn't see what I thought I did."

                Jacob grinned. Piper threw the dollar plane back to Merc. Stiles guessed Piper had bet on Stiles and Merc on Peter.

                "Do we have time for this?" Stiles asked. The hunters were right outside. They had no doubt surrounded the room by now.

                "I find it's best to give them a little time to get away," Jacob said.

                "You've already done it," Stiles realized. "How?"

                "We're tricksters," Merc said. "We tricked."

                "I'm afraid information is for ravens only," Jacob said. "Unless you already know..."

                Stiles glared. They could be lying about this too. "Wolves and ravens in the wild work together and play together. They form friendships. They're important allies."

                Jacob laughed outright at that. "We're also human, and humans notoriously tear each other apart."

                "You already did that," Stiles snapped. "The room hasn't changed, so you tricked the hunters into leaving, right? How? And how many did they leave behind to watch the room?"

                "Two," Peter said. "One is Allison, I think."

                "You think?" Stiles demanded. Why hadn't Peter said something sooner?

                "I don't know her as well as Scott." He shrugged. Shrugged!

                "Time to go," Piper said. She opened a window opposite the door.

                "Stiles hasn't figured it out yet," Jacob said.

                "He ain't gonna. Let's go," Merc insisted, standing and joining Piper at the window.

                Stiles frowned at the window. He and Peter stood at the wrong end of the room. If the hunters had left, they were chasing a decoy. If it was one of Peter's betas, they would have left more to guard the alpha. Lydia would have stayed personally unless she believed Stiles had run, or at least he thought so. She seemed calmer than everyone said, but maybe that was because she knew he wasn't really Stiles, not to her.

                "You can create illusions," Stiles said.

                Jacob nodded. Merc shoved a wad of cash into Piper's hands and leapt out the window. Stiles let Peter keep hold of his arm as they approached the window with Jacob behind them. He wasn't sure it would do much good, but he thought it made Peter feel more confident.

                Once outside, Jacob clapped Stiles on the shoulder and said, "Don't call us. We'll call you." With a wink, he transformed into a raven. Merc and Piper transformed and flew away. Stiles still didn't know whether the lie Peter heard or the birds they saw now were illusions.

                Peter grabbed Stiles' hand and pulled him into a run. They had to go deeper into town to avoid the hunters in the woods, which was opposite the direction of Peter's car. None of the streets and buildings here were familiar to Stiles. Beacon Hills had grown larger in this universe than his own, where trees still covered this area.

                By the time they reached the Hale's house, Stiles was beyond out of breath and wheezing painfully. He thought his heart would beat its was out through his throat. He'd already puked.

                But the hunters never saw them, and Peter had already confirmed the rest of the pack got out safely. Apparently, Stiles ran so slowly that Peter could text without falling behind.

                A truck was parked in front of the house. Peter checked his watch with a curse.

                "Did you seriously schedule a meeting for after we kidnapped a wereraven?" Stiles gasped out, drawing a desperate breath between each word.

                "Contractor for the mountain ash baseboards  and window treatments you suggested," Peter explained, not the least bit out of breath.

                Stiles wasn't sure he had ever hated anyone more than he hated Peter in that moment.

                Inside, they found Derek talking to a stranger with a tool belt. This couldn't be more than a consultation. At most he would measure the house. Why did he need to wear his tool belt? Was it just looking the part?

                "Uncle Peter," Derek called with a smile that even Stiles almost couldn't peg as fake. "Will you explain please that _quality_ wood is essential. We will not put subpar materials into this house. Have you seen this tile?" Derek turned back to the contractor for this and motioned to the floor. "Does that look like cheap or basic taste to you?"

                Stiles snorted and started coughing to cover it up. Derek was absolutely convincing. He also wasn't wrong, so Stiles wondered where the act ended. If the floor wasn't marble, it was made to look like it convincingly. He basically lived in a mansion.

                Peter somehow made a glare smarmy and began ranting about wood and soil. They must have researched this. No one cared this much about baseboard wood. Stiles guessed they were playing the part of rich eccentrics to explain their need for mountain ash specifically. He left them to it so he could grab a shower and a nap.

                He knew it when he woke up in a dream. Lydia sat beside him, staring at the wall.

                "I got here before you, I think," she said. "Do your dreams wait for you when you're awake?"

                There were bags under her eyes. Her skin was pale, and her fingers kept jittering against the pink fabric of her skirt.

                "Are you okay?" he asked.

                "I'm fine." The jitter ran off of her in visible waves.

                "But?"

                "Other You thinks I'm pushing myself too hard and not getting enough real sleep." She shook her head.

                "It's the middle of the day," Stiles said. "If you're so tired, maybe you should nap instead of talking."

                "No." Lydia spun and surged forward to grab Stiles' hand. "We spoke to a raven today, about Amara."

                "Funny, I spoke to some ravens too. I think I passed some sort of test."

                "Lair said werespiders move people between universes to feed off the displacement energy, but that Amara wants something more from you—Other You."

                "Displacement?" If other him was displaced, then so was he, but Amara wasn't here so far as Stiles could tell. She needed something specific to Other Stiles' energy when displaced. Stiles had sacrificed himself to the nemeton, but was much more strongly connected to the void after being possessed by the nogitsune. Other Stiles was the opposite, tied primarily to the nemeton with a little bit of void in his eye.

                Lydia said, "You need to talk to Peter about the binding. You said it's fraying." Her eyes were wide, but Stiles didn't think her stare focused on him. He had seen her like this before. She had nearly died.

                "What binding?"

                "On the demon eye."

                "I'll ask," Stiles promised.

                "I saw him die, Other You. I can't tell anymore if the spider or the raven is killing him. He just keeps screaming and screaming in my head about how I was supposed to save him." Lydia's grip on Stiles' hand tightened.

                Stiles pulled her into a hug and kissed her forehead. "You will. You'll save us both," he promised. "Ravens can create illusions. Warn the others not to believe everything they see."

                Lydia shivered in his arms.

                "There's one more thing I need you to do for me," Stiles said.

                "I will," Lydia agreed, turning her face up so she could look into his eyes.

                "Scream for me. Drown out all that extra sound, and then sleep. You can dream about me if you want. I won't notice."

                She laughed, if weakly. "Cover your ears."

                He did, but the scream still pierced through him so he thought he would shatter.

Stiles woke with half-formed ideas and half-remembered dreams jumbled together in his mind. He must have continued sleeping after Lydia left. He blinked up at the ceiling of his room—Other His room—and wondered how long he would be here before he stopped correcting himself. If he was lucky, he'd never find out. He missed his dad and his friends.

                A knock sounded from the door.

                "Stiles," Peter called through the closed door. "Can we come in? The contractor needs to measure your room."

                "Yeah, coming," Stiles said as he scrambled off the bed.

                In the hall, Stiles grabbed Derek and tugged him out of the doorway. "Can you do without Peter a few minutes? I need to talk to him."

                Derek nodded. "Did you speak to Lydia?"

                "Yeah. You might not want to listen. It's not catastrophic, but it's also not good news. We can share it with you more privately later."

                "I'll be alright," Derek promised.

                With a frown, Peter pulled Stiles away to his study.

                As soon as Peter shut the door, Stiles said, "She says the binding is fraying."

                Peter froze. He took a deliberate breath and swallowed to clear his throat. "That shouldn't be possible."

                "Well, it is," Stiles pointed out. They probably had time since Lydia wouldn't be able to  speak to Stiles again until this evening at the earliest, but that didn't mean they should waste it on what was obviously not true.

                "You don't understand, Stiles. We had dozens of emissaries, witches, supernatural librarians, anyone who would agree came to study the binding. It was too advanced for most. One said it was the single most powerful binding she'd ever seen. Not a one could find any weakness." Peter collapsed more than sat in his chair.

                "Was it built for interdimensional travel?" Stiles doubted any of their experts would have looked for that.

                "I don't know."

                "That's not all," Stiles said. "Lydia said the werespider moves people to a different universe and feeds off their displacement. That's probably what she took Isaac for."

                Peter nodded but didn't speak.

                Stiles asked, "Do you know anything about displacement? Could that affect the binding?"

                Peter's eyes flashed. "I don't know, Stiles."

                Stiles didn't have the patience for Peter's fragile ego. "When it frays, does he become the demon, or do they both die?"

                "They die," Peter snapped. "He was so focused on making sure the demon never survived him that he forgot to think maybe he'd want to survive it. Apparently, that's part of why it's so strong. he didn't build in a back door for it to take advantage of."

                "Then we need to fix it. How was it made?"

                "He tattooed it into his skin with the same ink we use for the pack bond."

                Stiles barely resisted commenting that he had to hide his wrist but other Stiles literally had facial tattoos. He needed to stay on topic and keep Peter there too. "Can he just make more?"

                "No. It uses my blood." Peter rubbed his temple like hopelessness gave him a headache.

                Creepy. "You're still alive in that world."

                "But not as his alpha."

                "Can he use Scott's blood?"

                "Scott's not his alpha either." Peter let his hand drop to his desk.

                "You adopted me. I'm sure Scott did the same."

                Peter paused in his self-pity to cock an eyebrow. "Adopted?" He shook his head. "I doubt he's been there long enough to really consider Scott his alpha. Just think how you view me. You know I'm the alpha here, and you'll work with me, but I'm just the tool you'll use to get home to your own pack, right?"

                "Okay, but Scott's a _true_ alpha," Stiles said. "That could make a difference."

                "Maybe." Peter conceded.

                "What else did he use besides your blood?" Stiles asked.

                "Mountain ash and ethanol, both easily available on your world, I'm sure. He empowered the ink among the nemeton's roots, so we'll just have to hope your tree stump is strong enough."

                The nemeton may have been cut down, but it wasn't weak. He'd seen its power when the darach used it.

                Stiles asked, "Why did he use your blood instead of his own?"

                "Human blood has no supernatural properties." Peter sighed and covered his eyes. "Even if he could make more ink, he'd have to discover exactly how it began to fray and write that into the binding, assuming the binding would accept an amendment. I think it's designed not to. He couldn't just trace over whichever part is damaged because even if it took, it would only fray again."

                "So there's a chance he can do something to buy more time to find a real solution," Stiles pointed out. "See how optimism helps more than pessimism. Now, how does he find out what went wrong?"

                "I'm a werewolf, Stiles, not a witch. I don't know."

                "Yeah, but on my world you used a banshee, the full moon, and your nephew when he was alpha to literally return from the dead, so I'm not buying that you don't know anything about magic."

                "For a failure, I'm quite impressive," Peter noted. "But Stiles will have to find what went wrong on his own. We can't observe it from here."

                "How far into the fraying does it kill him?"

                "When he loses control. It will look like the binding is gone. When the demon seizes power or is separated from Stiles, it activates the last defense." Peter clenched his jaw.

                "So could he write a new binding when this one fails but before the demon has control? Or while it's in the process of taking control?"

                "If he doesn't mind probably failing."

                "Only probably."

                Peter scrubbed a hand over the stubble along his jaw. "Most likely," he corrected, "but less than definitely. If he wanted to use different blood, I think he'd have to start over anyway."

                "So there's hope. Lydia was... less than clear, so maybe he already thought of this. I'll talk to her next time I have the chance to be sure." Stiles tapped his fingers on Peter's desk. Something about Isaac was nagging him. "Have you noticed any strange werewolves appearing in Beacon Hills recently?"

                Peter sighed. "Why?"

                "We've had several from a neighbor pack go missing. Maybe Amara moved them here to feed before she got me switched around, like she almost did with Isaac."

                "You survived because of the void. Doesn't that mean crossing universes should kill them?"

                "Maybe werewolves heal fast enough to survive," Stiles suggested. "Back home, Other You passed through a portal from the Wild Hunt's train station and survived even though we saw it kill a human."

                Peter sighed. "I'll look into it."

                " _We_ could look into it."

                "Are you going to sniff them out with your human nose?" Peter raised an expectant eyebrow.

                "No, but I know them, and I know a few places they might hide. And if we find them, a friendly face might be better than yours."

                "Fine," Peter sighed. "Together, then."

                Stiles grinned. Maybe it was unfair to consider it a victory when Peter had just been told his packmate was sort of dying, but Peter was insufferable enough that Stiles couldn't help himself. The grin faltered only a moment later. "We'll have to think of a way to get them home too."

                "Focus on finding them first," Peter advised. "We'll want to reach them before the hunters do."

                Satomi's betas would think Allison, Lydia, and Chris Argent were friends.


	15. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack searches for information.

Noah Stilinski smiled as he offered Stiles a helping of the eggs he'd scrambled. It was a sad smile. He didn't have any other kind to offer Stiles, but at least he gave that much. They'd told him about Stiles' past and asked if Stiles needed to live somewhere else. He'd left the room for a long time and returned stiff but said he should stay. A shadow still lingered behind his eyes when he looked at Stiles, but he tried to focus on the things that were the same. He didn't say it out loud, but Stiles could see it.

                Stiles accepted the food with a smile of his own. It was a sad smile too. Once he got home, he'd be an orphan again. Even only half having his dad was more than visiting his grave could give.

                "Any plans for today, kiddo?" Noah asked.

                Stiles made a face.

                "Library?" Noah guessed.

                "Library," Stiles confirmed.

                "I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for."

                "I'm looking for demonology and blood magic at minimum."

                Noah coughed into his orange juice. "In a high school library?"

                Stiles shrugged.

                "You know there's an occult shop downtown?" Noah asked. "Could be bogus, but you won't know until you check it out."

                "How do _you_ know about it?" Stiles asked.

                Noah snickered. "Beacon Hills is a small town at heart. I got a call from a concerned citizen who feared for his safety."

                Stiles laughed. "How angry was he when you said witchcraft isn't illegal?"

                "He told me I'd change my mind when the witches cursed my son, so I said I'd be happy to bring him into the station for protection if that was a threat."

                "He gave up then, right?" Stiles asked, leaning forward.

                "He hung up," Noah confirmed.

                Stiles snorted.

                Noah's smile lasted a few moments longer before it turned sad again. "I better get to work. Text me if you get an early night. We can have dinner."

                "I will," Stiles lied. "Let me know if you arrest any witches."

                "I have a feeling you'll know before I do, kid." Noah pulled on his jacket and headed out.

                That was the best conversation they'd had yet. It almost felt natural.

                Stiles dumped the rest of his eggs in the garbage. He'd already eaten enough. Someone knocked at the door as he loaded his plate into the dishwasher. He opened the door to find Lydia on the porch. Her hair and makeup were immaculate, but her hand was tapping against her leg. She pushed past Stiles into the house.

                "I spoke to Stiles," she said before he'd shut the door. "He and Peter think you will have a moment between the binding fraying and the demon taking over."

                "How long a moment?" Stiles had a horrible feeling they wanted him to let the binding shatter and then rewrite it while the demon took control.

                "Not very. We'll have to be ready."

                They definitely wanted him to bind the demon as it fought back. He'd done it the first time, but the demon would be ready this time, sort of. It was incomplete for now.

                Lydia continued, "They think since Scott is a true alpha, his blood—"

                "Won't work." Stiles steered Lydia to a seat. "Yours might."

                "Mine?"

                Stiles nodded, leaning forward. "I need power and connection both. Scott is a true alpha, but I'm not part of his pack. You did something when you first reached the other me across the void."

                "I don't know if I can replicate that. You're not there when I dream with him."

                "My life depends on you doing it, Lydia."

                She pressed her lips into a thin line. "My connection is to _him,_ not you."

                "I'm pretty sure your connection to him is the reason this might work."

                "Because it reaches through you?"

                Stiles nodded. "It's the only connection that even comes near me, so we'll just have to hope it's enough to save me so I can still be traded back for him." He thought it as good a time as any to change the subject. "We've been through every book in the library. Maybe it's time we tried something else."

                "Like?"

                "My dad says a magic shop opened up downtown."

                Lydia frowned.

                Stiles said, "It could be nonsense, but it could also be useful."

                "Fine, but Scott and Malia are coming with us." She took her phone from her purse and texted them. "Now, we can discuss my blood while we wait."

                "You literally share dreams with the other guy. I'd say the connection is strong."

                "Could your enmity with the other me affect the binding?" she asked.

                "I don't have dreams with her, so I doubt it."

                "Had you thought of it?"

                "No," Stiles admitted. "But it won't matter. She's not as strong as you are."

                "You used a werewolf the first time. How could using a banshee this time affect that?"

                "It won't. Most of the ink's power comes from the nemeton when I infuse it." Stiles hoped their broken nemeton would work.

                "Your nemeton was never cut down," Lydia said.

                "Yours still has power."

                "You said it was angry power."

                Stiles nodded. "But still power."

                Scott and Malia arrived as they debated. Lydia let it go, maybe not wanting to bother the pack with an incomplete plan. As far as Stiles was concerned, the ink would work, but he followed her lead. Recreating the binding could still fail, even if the ink was perfect.

                Stiles and Lydia sat in the back seat of Malia's car, leaving Lydia's at the Stilinski house. Scott found the magic shop with his phone and navigated for Malia.

                At the shop, Scott stared from inside the car, rubbing his nose. Stiles checked it for a witch's aura but found nothing.

                "Stiles," Lydia said.

                "What?"

                "Your eye?"

                He hadn't closed it. It resisted, or, more accurately, was jammed. The demon didn't have enough power yet to fight him, but there was enough overflow to make control difficult. The others stared at him as he struggled with it. It closed with a jolt, giving away suddenly after a long resistance.

                Scott opened his door and tugged it back with a sneeze. Malia coughed and made a face at the shop.

                "We'll wait here," Scott said.

                "Call if you need help," Malia added. She gripped the steering wheel tight enough that Stiles worried she would damage it.

                Stiles and Lydia exited the car, leaving Scott in a new fit of sneezes. A bell rang above the door when they stepped into the shop.

Lydia wrinkled her nose. "I see now why Malia and Scott wanted to wait in the car."

                The shopkeeper had a strong incense burning. The scents of candles and herbs jumbled together to make it worse. Stiles hadn't noticed any mountain ash yet, but maybe the smell drove everyone off.

                Stiles shrugged and headed for a bookshelf at the back of the shop. He passed herbs growing in pots hanging from the ceiling, shelves, and tables. Crystals, mortars, bones, and jewelry lined the shelves. A coat rack midway into the shop was laden with scarves in different colors and materials. Beside the bookshelf sat a table covered in glass jars of different sizes and shapes, including several mason jars. Honestly, Stiles couldn't tell if the shop was legitimate or not from its wares. The books would be better indicators anyway.

                "Can I help you find anything?" The shopkeeper glided over. He had a beard neatly trimmed around a smug smile.

                "Books on interdimensional travel, parallel worlds, the void, and tricksters," Stiles said without missing a beat. He couldn't open his demon eye now to check the man's aura.

                The shopkeeper laughed warmly and began scanning the shelves. "Writing a book but Amazon failed you?"

                "And the library."

                The shopkeeper paused his scan of the shelves to ask, "Some of this will touch on mythology. Do you have a preferred source culture?"

                Stiles shrugged. "Just trying to get a feel for different things right now. Maybe something that uses animal spirits instead of human tricksters?"

                "I might be able to help more if you told me what animals are chasing you and what kind of demon you are." The shopkeeper had turned back to the shelf, but Stiles felt the man's eyes on him just the same.

                "I'm not a demon."

                "I'm not an idiot."

                "Only my eye is a demon, okay," Stiles admitted. "And they're a spider and a raven."

                The man turned fully toward Stiles. "Show me the binding."

                "That's like asking to see my panties on the first date. I'm a proper lady, thank you very much."

                The shopkeeper pointed to Stiles' left eye. "It's this one, right?"

                Stiles nodded reluctantly. His few attempts at lying to witches had ended... badly. They had an even better nose for it than werewolves, probably because they generally knew the answer before asking the question.

                The shopkeeper said, "We both know its energy is seeping out. Honestly, it's overpowering. Show me. Maybe I can help."

                Stiles sighed. "I already told you what you can help with." He pulled the binding forward though.

                "Who did this? It looks..."

                "Self-administered?"

                The shopkeeper jerked in surprise and nodded slightly, maybe to himself. He leaned forward to study the marks on Stiles' face. "You got cocky. I'll admit you're good, but there's a reason you're not supposed to bind void demons."

                "They break out," Stiles said. He'd heard this a thousand times before, it felt like.

                "They negate the binding itself by pulling it into the void. This one might have held if not for the spider, but you can't just count on things going your way. Honestly, your demon is probably how she found you, making this outcome inevitable." He ran his thumb over Stiles' cheek, pausing exactly where the dot was missing. "The space between worlds is the void. I think you know that. Your demon helped you pass unscathed, but the void granted it renewed access to the source of its power, like dropping a fire demon into the flames and expecting it not to burn."

                Stiles frowned. "So even if I fix it, returning home will break the binding again."

                The shopkeeper jerked back and shook his head. "I don't care how good you are. You can't fix this binding."

                "And before you saw it, would you have believed I could write it?"

                "I would have said that was impossible too," he admitted.

                Lydia grabbed Stiles' hand. He tried to pull away, but she held tight. Stiles assumed it was a warning. Since she didn't pull him from the shop, he guessed he still had a chance to persuade this witch to help him instead of killing him.

                "We already know a little about the werespider," Stiles said. "But we need to know why she would move someone other than feeding off their displacement."

                The shopkeeper shrugged. "Any number of reasons. Maybe she needs a mate. Or an heir. Or your demon."

                "For what?"

                "If a void demon worked with her, it might help her victims survive displacement like it helped you. More likely the two monsters would kill each other. No offense to your several monster friends." He nodded to Lydia.

                "Any chance you know so much because you have books that can help me?" Stiles asked, hopefully not too soon.

                The shopkeeper looked between Stiles and Lydia. He'd noticed Lydia was supernatural. Did he know she was a banshee?

                "Yes," the shopkeeper said, "but you're also going to take some incense that should hold back the void demon. If it's weakened enough, maybe we can do something about the binding after all, severing it from you at least."

                Stiles wanted to argue that he would rewrite the binding and keep his power, but Lydia squeezed his hand. He bit his tongue. "Thank you," he grunted as the shopkeeper bagged a stack of books, a packet of incense, and an incense burner.

                "That'll be $231.66."

                Stiles didn't have Peter's money in this world, only the money Noah had given him for food, which he had saved instead. "Shit, I can't affor—"

                Lydia stopped him and paid, finally letting go of his hand.

                The shopkeeper took her money but held back the bag as he eyed Stiles. "You never told me what kind of demon it is."

                Stiles bit his lip, debating. "A nightmare," he said. They were strong, but not the worst thing out of the void by far.

                The shopkeeper actually looked relieved. "I was afraid... I'd heard about a nogitsune around here."

                "We already beat him," Lydia said with too wide a smile as she took the bag from him. "Thank you for your help."

                The witch didn't regain his wits before they'd left the shop.

                "What happened?" Scott asked as soon as they were in the car. "We couldn't hear anything after you mentioned the library."

                "The owner's a real witch," Stiles said, "and with the binding damaged, I can't hid the demon from them."

                "We got what we needed," Lydia added. "He also confirmed that Stiles isn't exaggerating his own skill when he talks about that binding."

                "Deaton said it was good too," Stiles reminded her.

                "Deaton has probably never seen one in person before. That witch had a binding on his left arm that he would have unleashed to kill you if you'd kept scaring him."

                "I wasn't trying to scare him. I was being honest. You can't lie to witches."

                "He was scared," Lydia insisted.

                "Then I guess some people find me honestly scary." Stiles paused. He hadn't seen Lydia scared of anything but her own predictions yet. "Not you though."

                "I could crush your skull with my voice."

                "See, _that_ is being scary, not what I did." Stiles hoped Peter was never stupid enough to bite the Lydia back home.

                Scott twisted around to look back at them. "It's great that you two don't smell like you might kill each other anymore, but why are you arguing?"

                Stiles half-shrugged. "Some people find me abrasive."

                Lydia eyed him.

                "Was the other guy not argumentative because I find that unlikely," Stiles added.

                Lydia said, "It's more useful than avoiding each other, right?"

                "Yes," Scott conceded. "I guess so long as neither of you is hurt, it can't be that bad."

                "We're both unhurt and unbothered," Stiles assured him.

                "He means to say we aren't actually fighting," Lydia corrected.

                Malia had seemed focused on the road but said, "We're not supposed to be friends with him. We're supposed to send him home and get our Stiles back."

                "We're doing our best," Scott assured her. "This isn't something we can solve in a fight."

                "Have you ever actually beaten anything in a fight?" Malia asked. The tone of her voice suggested not.

                "Yeah, but violence isn't the answer?"

                "When?"

                Scott set a hand on her shoulder. "Malia—"

                "When?"

                "You fought your mom."

                "With Belasko's talons. Doesn't count."

                "We beat Peter."

                "With fire."

                "It's not bad to outsmart the bad guys," Scott insisted. "The second time, I _did_ fight Peter and beat him."

                Malia nodded like that reminder satisfied whatever she'd wanted.

                This world's Peter was an omega, but Stiles couldn't help feeling this pack had defeated his alpha. Twice.


	16. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles searches for the missing betas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra chapter today because I accidentally got through revising half of this chapter before remembering the last one was where I left off.

Peter frowned and tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. "I don't smell anyone or hear any heartbeats."

                They stood outside what had been an abandoned shack in Stiles' world. Here it was an old house, foreclosed years before and never sold. Still, Stiles was sure Satomi's betas could find it, and would see it being empty as an invitation. As a rule, Satomi's pack preferred to hide from danger. It protected the pack. Stiles frowned. It didn't protect anyone else. Stiles wasn't very good with pacifism.

                "I really thought we'd find them," Stiles muttered.

                "We might yet, just not here."

                "Could they be hiding?"

                "Hiding their heartbeats." Peter gave him a flat look.

                "Batman did it," Stiles countered.

                "Batman is fictional."

                "You want I should ask a random stranger if werewolves exist?"

                Peter scowled. "You want to check inside."

                "Even if they're not here now, there could be some sign if they were before." Stiles didn't wait before heading toward the door. Peter followed.

                The door was locked, but Peter made quick work of that. Nothing happened when Stiles found and flipped the light switch, not even after he flipped it five more times.

                "No power," Stiles decided.

                "I guess the alternate universe werewolves who aren't squatting here forgot to pay the energy bill," Peter said.

                "You could be more supportive, you know." Stiles squinted into the darkness. Blinds covered the windows. Combined with dirt built up over the years, they kept out most of the pale sunlight. Still, he could tell no one had been here in a long time. It looked like furniture and valuables had already been dragged out. What remained was covered by sheets and a thick layer of dust that Stiles kicked up with every step. "What do your elf eyes see?" Stiles asked anyway. Peter would see plenty that Stiles didn't, whether it was helpful or not.

                "There's nothing to see, Stiles." The red of Peter's eyes shone in the dim light.

                "But why?" Stiles demanded. "If Amara feeds off continued displacement, she would need them alive, right?"

                "She's not here anymore," Peter said. "And your information is second-hand at best."

                Stiles clenched his teeth. "It's what we have. I trust Lydia."

                "What's next on your list?" Peter asked like what he'd said didn't change anything. Maybe it didn't for him. He'd never believed Stiles would find anyone.

                "Do you think she killed them before she left?" Stiles asked. If they were dead, Stiles would need to look in ditches and morgues, not safe houses and hiding places.

                "She isn't the only one of her kind. A food source might draw rivals. Or, our hunters are more organized than those on your world. Even if the spider left those betas alive, the hunters might not have." Peter spoke almost matter-of-factly.

                "How do you know that about the hunters?" Stiles demanded.

                "I was in your head, Stiles. You resisted admirably, but I'm better at it than your world's wolves. What I got was random and incomplete, but I know the Argents were all but wiped out."

                "Asshole."

                Peter shrugged.

                "Is that what you really want from me? To get rid of your hunters? Because that wasn't me." Stiles knew the Argents could be reasoned with. They followed a code. If Peter stopped killing people, maybe they'd stop hunting him.

                Peter set a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "No. I wouldn't mind, obviously, but if you have any purpose here, it's the pack. You're part of it now, remember?"

                Stiles jerked away from Peter's touch. "I remember you said you wouldn't touch me, but you keep doing it anyway."

                Peter rolled his eyes.

                Stiles resisted the urge to punch him in his smug face. "If a thing literally changes the chemistry in my brain, I get to decide against it without eyerolling. I put up with the rest of your shit so far. Give me this one."

                Peter's eyes had gone red again. "What did you feel when I touched your shoulder just now?"

                Stiles threw his hands up. "Upset that Satomi's betas are probably dead. Alarmed that you knew something about my world I didn't tell you. Angry that you're an actual asshat, a hat I could wear on my ass if I didn't have the common sense to wear them on my head, except you don't fit heads because you're a hat made for asses."

                "And?"

                "And fucking what?"

                "Did it change? When I touched you, did any of that change?"

                Stiles stopped fuming to think back. "No."

                "I figured out how to deactivate the bond's emotional effects for you, so I wasn't breaking the terms of our agreement."

                "I hate you," Stiles spat. "Why didn't you just tell me that?"

                "We designed it specifically to make itself known when used. No version of you likes me messing with your head, so he insisted. I thought you'd noticed."

                Stiles crossed his arms. Peter watched him without a hint of guilt. His eyes had lost their inhuman glow.

                From the beginning, Stiles knew Peter might betray him and it made him paranoid. Peter was humoring him for now, and patronizing as that was, it also meant he was working with Stiles, not against him. That he could simultaneously help Stiles and be a jerk only proved he was Peter.

                Finally, Stiles said, "We should check places she might have dumped their bodies. Any ideas?"

                "Other than the bottom of the lake?"

                "Unless you're equipped to check there, yes."

                "I have a few ideas, but, Stiles, I can tell something more is bothering you. I don't know if you're planning to betray me or waiting for me to betray you, but I don't want that distrust infecting my pack."

                Stiles drew his eyebrows down into a glower. "Is that a defense mechanism? You make everything about the pack so you never have to pretend to be a human being?"

                "I'm not human," Peter reminded him.

                "Fuck your werewolf superiority," Stiles growled. "You're still a person. A person who has betrayed us, betrayed everyone who has ever been stupid enough to trust him. I'm not sure you can help scheming and backstabbing. It might just be too much who you are."

                "That wasn't me. I already have the power he was scheming for." Peter's voice was controlled but tight with disappointment at the border of anger, like he had a right to expect Stiles' trust after the lies he'd already been caught in.

                "But you still killed your niece for it, didn't you?" Stiles snapped.

                "I wasn't in my right mind then."

                "You mean you weren't an alpha then," Stiles spat.

                "Being an alpha accelerated my healing," Peter explained like that made it reasonable.

                "That's an excuse. You haven't betrayed more people here because you haven't needed to, not because you're better than that."

                Peter's lip curled into a sneer. "How, exactly, do you think I'm going to betray you, Stiles?"

                "I don't know yet."

                "Come on. You're the smart one. Outsmart me. What's my evil plan?" Peter stepped closer to glare into Stiles' eyes. His voice was as tense as his shoulders. His hands curled into fists.

                The best way for Peter to gain more power from Stiles right now... was to trade him back for the part-demon mage, assuming Other Stiles survived his binding fraying. If they learned how soon enough, Peter could help Other Stiles replace the binding and save his life. What Peter should be doing was hunting down the ravens for answers, but they wanted to take Stiles or kill him. Helping Stiles search for Satomi's betas both slowed the search for answers and protected Stiles from the ravens.

                Peter had already talked to Stiles about his place in the pack. What he needed from Stiles wasn't power for himself, not directly. He needed a powerful pack to protect him and fight for him. He needed a powerful Stiles.

                He told Stiles outright that he wanted both Stiles' mind and Other Stiles' power.

                "You don't want to hurt me," Stiles admitted. "You'll try to make me accept the bite or learn magic like he did. You'll act like it's for my own good, so I can protect myself. It will really be for you."

                Stiles shouldn't have felt disappointed. If Peter wanted him in his pack, then Peter would keep Stiles alive long enough to get him home. Stiles should be happy to discover he all but had Peter wrapped around his finger. He supposed he had expected more from the beast alpha with blood magic tattoos in his skin and a nightmare darach in his pack.

                Peter asked, "Is that so bad?" The tension had melted from his voice, leaving it almost soft in comparison.

                "I don't want it."

                "Of course you do."

                "I've been through this before with another you. I'm not going to accept," Stiles said.

                "And I'm not going to force you."

                Stiles scowled. "Stop pretending to be reasonable."

                "What is it you want me to say, Stiles? That I think you'd make an excellent werewolf? I do. That I miss having a powerful magic-user to handle everything I can imagine needing? I do. I won't apologize for the obvious."

                "I don't expect you to," Stiles snapped. He wasn't sure Peter had ever apologized for anything.

                "Because you know me so well." Peter sneered. "At least tell me why you won't accept the bite. How is it so bad?"

                "I don't want to be like you." Stiles already knew what Peter would say to that. He didn't even bother trying to make it more convincing.

                "Stiles, your heart sped up over the words, 'I don't want.' I know you're lying."

                "He said the same thing. Neither of you thought very hard about it." Stiles squared his shoulders and stared Peter down, daring him to think beyond what he could hear with his superhuman senses for once in his life.

                Peter paused. "You're afraid you're already like me, not that you'll become so when given power. What is it? Do you already crave power for its own sake? Do you just not know where the line is, so you hold yourself back? The reason your heart beats faster isn't that you're lying, it's that you're afraid, of yourself and what you'll become."

                Stiles felt his hands shaking with anger. He clenched them into fists, clenched his teeth against an automatic denial. The darkest parts of his heart didn't define him. He could be better. He was different from Peter.

                "Have you ever been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder?" Peter asked.

                Stiles was surprised into answering, "What? No."

                "I have, so maybe you're right. Manipulation and betrayal are just too much a part of who I am." He smirked, but it sat bitterly on his face.

                "I don't think that's..." Stiles wasn't sure how to articulate that lots of people with ASPD were better people than Peter. He settled for, "Is that supposed to be an excuse?"

                "My sister had me diagnosed so I could be treated. The pack bond isn't just for fun either. It's easier to empathize with people if they can make me feel what they do."

                "So you're cured?"

                Peter growled. "No, I'm handling it."

                Stiles thought Peter might handle it better if he invested in Scott as the pack's moral compass. They weren't touching, so Peter could be lying. Stiles doubted it, but if Peter meant to use illness as a cover or sob story, he'd make sure Stiles could verify it.

                Stiles asked, "Did you tell other me too?"

                "He found out on his own."

                "How?" Even if there had been a medication specifically for ASPD, Stiles doubted it would work on werewolves. Maybe one of the others knew and Other Stiles claimed to figure it out to cover for them. Or maybe this was all a lie.

                He almost thought Peter wouldn't answer. It occurred to Stiles that if this was true, it could be painful for Peter to share. If this wasn't a ham-fisted attempt to manipulate Stiles, it was an intimate confession.

                "I have a fucking therapist, Stiles," Peter said at last through clenched teeth. Still flat, human teeth though.

                "I guess this is supposed to convince me you're not like the Peter I know." Stiles doubted Peter could trust him enough to share for the sake of sharing.

                But Peter admitted he liked Stiles better than his doppelganger, and he'd said that with the bond to prove it.

                Peter said, "You tell me."

                "I barely know either of you," Stiles said as he held out his hand. He had a feeling Peter would know what for.

                "You're exaggerating," Peter snapped. He snatched Stiles hand and held it tight enough to hurt. "Nothing I've ever said or done has been about him. You know I'm smart and manipulative and power hungry, and you know all of that is true of you too. So I'm telling you why you won't betray the people you care about for power, even if you become a werewolf, sink into a six-year coma, and lose your mind and self control. Stiles, you'll still be different from me because you started different." Peter jerked his hand back like Stiles' skin burned.

                He was telling the truth.

                "I still can't trust you," Stiles said. He didn't care how convincing or true Peter made his sob story. It would take more than a chat in a dark, dusty, old home to make Stiles trust anyone ever again.

                "Then don't."

                Stiles paused. He squinted at Peter. "I'll admit that's not what I expected."

                "You've already agreed to my terms and have been true to your word so far. That's everything I need of you right now." Peter's hands were in fists at his sides, but his voice was controlled again.

                "You said 'right now,'" Stiles noted.

                "Eventually, I'll need you to either go home or choose to stay. We have some time before it comes to that."

                Stiles frowned. "Don't worry. I'm going home."

                Peter's eyes burned red in the dim light. He turned away and led Stiles out to the car. His shoulders were tense. Stiles followed silently.

                "Text Scott," Peter ordered. "We're going to pick him up."

                "Okay," Stiles agreed and sent the message. "But why?"

                "Melissa won't talk to me."

                "Oh." They were going to the hospital to check the morgue.

                Peter didn't say anything else. Part of Stiles wished they could go home and cool off, but finding Satomi's betas was important. If they weren't at the hospital, he would suggest trying again tomorrow. If they were... he wouldn't need to.

                When they picked up Scott, he sat in the back quietly. Stiles could feel Scott looking at him. They were halfway to the hospital before Scott said, "No one told me what we're doing."

                "Sorry," Stiles apologized. He explained their reasoning.

                "I'll wait in the car," Peter added.

                "Yeah, my mom will freak out if she sees you," Scott said. He turned to Stiles. "I hope your friends aren't there though."

                "Me too," Stiles said. They could be dead out in the woods somewhere. That would be worse. Or they could be alive. He hoped they were alive.

                "Do you think they're the ones the hunters found?" Scott asked.

                Peter said, "Maybe."

                "What did the hunters find?" Stiles asked.

                "They've been accusing us of killing teenagers in Beacon Hills. We thought it was the ravens, but maybe it was the spider instead," Scott explained

                "Oh." Stiles didn't miss having hunters as enemies. Argent worked with the pack now. Maybe this world's Argents could too.

                Peter dropped them off at the door and pulled away.

                "He seemed weird," Scott said.

                "We had a fight," Stiles said.

                Scott grimaced and led him into the hospital.

Melissa raised an eyebrow at the sight of them. She looked exactly like the Melissa back home. Stiles hoped that meant she would do what she could to help them, just like the other her. Scott gave an amended version of what Stiles told him, mentioning only that three kids from another pack were missing and maybe severely injured.

                "I had hoped you wouldn't be involved, just this once," Melissa admonished.

                "I'm just trying to help," Scott pleaded. "They might really be hurt."

                Melissa steeled herself with a breath. "Scott, based on what you've told me, I think those kids came through here, and they _were_ really hurt. They didn't make it." She let the breath back out and asked,  "Can you ID them?"

                Stiles said, "I don't know. They're allies more than friends, and I don't have their pictures with me."

                Melissa's eyes darted, making sure their conversation was still private.

                "Let's find out." She pulled the boys away from the desk. "You need to be ready. They were injured over their entire bodies, like burns made without fire. They succumbed to their wounds. Do you know what that means?"

                "They were so hurt it killed them," Scott whispered.

                "Did they succumb or was it made to look like they did?" Stiles asked.

                "It was a miracle they were alive in the first place." Melissa led them into the elevator and shut the door before anyone else approached. "That's why they stood out."

                "That's why you think they were werewolves," Stiles corrected.

                "Yes." Melissa frowned. They waited a few moments as the elevator moved. "You look well, Stiles, but you know my offer to live with us instead of Peter still stands."

                "Thank you," Stiles said, "but I can't accept. I'm sorry." He fidgeted with the band over his wrist. He hadn't realized Melissa didn't know about him. Now that he thought about it, he realized Scott hadn't said that the betas were from another world or that they'd passed through the void.

                Her voice turned to steel. "Is he forcing you to stay?"

                "No," Stiles assured her, raising his hands. "I was just trying to sound polite. I guess it didn't work."

                As they exited the elevator, Scott gave Stiles an apologetic wince behind Melissa's back. Stiles shook his head and wondered why Other Stiles had preferred to live with the Hales.

                They reached the morgue. Melissa turned back and asked, "You sure you're ready?"

                Scott and Stiles nodded as one.

                Melissa led them in and moved to the wall of drawers. She opened one and pulled the tray out fully. After checking the boys' reactions, she folded down the cloth just enough to reveal the body's face.

                Her skin had turned black. It was flaking off. Deeper cracks ran through the creases around her eyes and mouth. Her hair looked windblown. Most of the ends had split. Some portions had turned white.

                "Do you recognize her?" Melissa asked, voice gentle.

                "I think that's Quinn," Stiles said, though it was hard to be sure. He had expected to find them alive, expected them to confirm their identities when he said Satomi sent him.

                Scott said, "She's a werewolf, I'm sure."

                Melissa lifted the sheet and covered Quinn's face.

                The others had died too long ago to still be in the morgue, but Melissa had pictures in their medical files. Stiles memorized their faces so he could show Lydia if she doubted him. He couldn't forget them if he wanted to. Melissa gave Scott and Stiles both long hugs before letting them leave.

                The two of them did all the talking in the car. Peter dropped off Scott and drove home without a word. Stiles didn't press him. When they reached the house, Stiles climbed directly into bed, hoping to sleep away everything that had happened. He scrolled through pictures from back home on his old phone for a while before falling asleep. Even the ones whose doppelgangers he saw daily felt far away.

His eyes closed, and Stiles was in his room in his home universe. Lydia sat at the edge of his bed. She looked around. This room wasn't spartan like the other. He had an anime decal on the wall, pictures and yarn everywhere. One wall had a corkboard completely covered in paper and pins. His glass crime board filled the center of the room. Push-pins and writing pens cluttered his desk in near equal numbers.

                "I'm supposed to be reading," Lydia said. "We got some books from a witch who opened a shop downtown."

                "Seriously?"

                Lydia shrugged. "I guess the nemeton draws all types."

                Stiles chose to believe witches made sense. He was talking to a banshee in another dimension through his dreams, so who was he to call something strange?

                "He thinks my blood will work better than Scott's because I'm connected to you." Her eyes darted away from him at the end to eye the room.

                "I never thought to ask if it had to be werewolf blood," Stiles realized.

                Lydia asked, "Do you remember how you felt after the nogitsune was gone? You were quiet sometimes, and angry too much."

                That came out of nowhere. Stiles said, "That's not important. Are you getting enough sleep?"

                "Yes, I'm fine. You feel angry again tonight."

                "I argued with Peter. It's not a big deal. I know why we couldn't find Satomi's betas," Stiles said.

                Lydia set a hand against her stomach. "He was angry too, but a different kind of angry."

                "What? Did you hear what I said?"

                "Every time he saw me, all the darkness in his heart rose to the surface, and he couldn't help but choke on it. It's only been days since he started looking at me instead of the space around me."

                Stiles tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but she tensed at his touch. He pulled away, unsure what was wrong.

                He said, "That's a good thing, right? He's being nicer to you?"

                "When we dealt with the witch, I knew Stiles might push too hard. I took his hand to warn him, and that was enough. He understood." She held onto her own hand, squeezing the fingers so they turned red.

                "Sure he did. He's still me. That's also good."Stiles couldn't tell where she was going with this. Maybe she just needed to talk, or she'd lied about getting enough sleep.

                Lydia turned her head to meet his gaze. "Which is why I only realized after seeing him that you can't have just moved on from what happened to you."

                Stiles frowned. He looked away for long enough to take a breath and turned back to Lydia. "We've all been through a lot," he said. "Scott and I found—"

                "You hide it well," she interrupted, "but I don't think a single brief contact with the void would be enough to protect you completely. Passing through the void unraveled part of his binding. I need to know if it's unraveled something in you too." Lydia set a hand against his cheek as she spoke.

                Stiles pulled away from her touch. Her fingers brushed against his cheekbone, his cheek, his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about."

                "I'm talking about the pit inside of you that you can't fill. Maybe you've never tried, and maybe that makes it easier to ignore. I can almost feel it, sitting here with you in your dreams. It's stronger tonight. I think because you're angry."

                She had been alone with the nogitsune. Stiles wondered how much it had told her. He remembered its hunger, so much stronger than anything Stiles had felt.

                He said, "I don't—"

                "You do."

                "You don't know what I was going to say," Stiles snapped. "The nogitsune is gone, if that's what you're worried about."

                "Not that." She looked sad. How dare _she_ look sad.

                "Then everything is fine." But Stiles felt himself bare his teeth as he said it. He was still on edge from arguing with Peter. He needed to calm down, but knowing that his feelings were irrational didn't make them disappear.

                "You're not fine."

                "Sure I am." Stiles would have growled if he were a wolf, not a rough sound in his throat, a literal animal growl.

                "Stiles, you should know better than any of us what the void can do to someone. You felt its hunger."

                A crack broke through the wall behind the headboard with the sound of plaster and wood being ripped apart.

                Lydia pressed on, "It doesn't have to be bad. It's the reason you survived. Jordan and I are harbingers of death, and we do okay. Void can't be worse."

                "Scott was the only one Theo didn't want." Stiles couldn't look her in the eyes as he said it. He stared at his hands. "He called me Void Stiles, like I was somehow separate from the old me. He laughed when I punched him."

                "Changed doesn't mean separate."

                Smaller cracks in the wall spread out from the first.

                "You should go," Stiles said. "And remember that sometimes it's better not to poke at something just because it's there."

                "You didn't know?"

                Stiles hesitated. "I'm not sure."

                He had felt it. Theo and Jacob both saw the void in him, but it was different coming from an enemy. Stiles had known he was human, which meant he couldn't be anything else. He had ignored the hunger. It was a small thing in him compared to the nogitsune's, small enough to convince himself it was different.

                "It doesn't have to change anything," Lydia promised like she couldn't hear how hollow the words came out.

                The wall groaned with the spreading network of cracks. Stiles set a hand against it. He wondered what it would look like. No, he knew what it looked like. He wondered would Lydia would see.

                "What is it?" she asked.

                A scaffolding pin shoved through one of the cracks. It could have been the same one he pulled out to kill Donovan.

                Stiles set two fingers in its hoop and tugged.

                The wall shattered, roaring past them in chunks and flakes. Behind it was the hospital roof. Stiles' mother stood on the ledge, looking at the street below past her bare toes. The wind tossed her hair. Stiles joined her on the ledge. Looking down, he saw no street, only writhing nothing. Growths of shadow seemed to reach up toward him then fall back into the mass. There was no end, only chaos.

                "Stiles?" Lydia asked. She peered over the edge but did not join him on the ledge. "What is this?"

                "They're not really shadows," he said. "They only look that way from here. Because we're not part of them here."

                "Step back from the ledge."

                Stiles laughed, but it stung his throat. "That's where I was before. You pushed me here. It doesn't have to look this way," he said.

                "I don't understand."

                Stiles hopped down and led them back across the hospital roof. He opened the door and stepped into Deaton's clinic. A tub of ice water sat in its center in place of the operating table. Stiles couldn't make out the edges of the ice. They changed even as he looked, always becoming, never being. The water churned around and through them, impossibly deep, hurling ice in unrecognizable patterns through eternity beyond a window in the shape of a tub.

                "It's a dream," Stiles explained. He set his hand against the rim of the tub. The cold seeped down to his bones. His teeth clattered. "You could push me down like last time. It's what you were doing before. It just looked less like it."

                "I'm sorry," she whispered. Her eyes were red and full of tears. Mascara streaked down her cheeks. Her hair had been up before, but now it hung in damp tangles like she'd run through the rain. "I'm sorry. Let's go back."

                "I thought it didn't have to change anything." Stiles sneered.

                "I didn't... How can you live with this waiting inside you? How do you control it?"

                "I don't control anything. I don't want to, and I don't try." Stiles took his hand off the tub. The cold lingered in his bones. He set his foot against the rim of the tub and kicked it over. Ice water spilled over the floor.

                Deaton's clinic crumbled at the water's touch, so Stiles pulled Lydia through the door back into his bedroom before the floor crumbled under them.

                "I'm sorry," Lydia repeated. "I didn't know what I was asking."

                "You still don't," Stiles said. "The nogitsune was part of that, not looking in from a safe vantage. And it loved it."

                Lydia had collapsed onto the bed. She stared at her hands again.

                "You should wake up before going to your own dreams," Stiles advised. "Stuff of nightmares and all that."

                "Do you... do you know what you would become if you went in?"

                "No. Something terrible." Stiles stood just inside the door. "I usually get to forget when I dream of that." He only remembered that he'd ever dreamed it before because Lydia helped him see it lucidly.

                Lydia squeezed her eyes shut. "If it's any consolation, I'll never be able to forget it either." She faded away.

                He hadn't told her about Satomi's dead packmates.

                Stiles was shaking, or the world was. He woke. Peter leaned over him, shaking Stiles by his shoulders and repeating, "Wake up, Stiles. It's a dream. Wake up."

                Stiles sat up. He managed to ram his forehead into Peter's chin.

                "Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing at his head. His throat was sore.

                "What happened? You wouldn't wake."

                Stiles shrugged, blinking sleep from his eyes. "I was talking to Lydia. Maybe her power kept me there."

                "You were having a nightmare," Peter snarled. "A worse nightmare than I've known either version of you to have."

                Stiles rolled his stiff shoulders and stretched his legs. "I was sharing a nightmare with her. I don't have the strength right now to share it with you." He hoped never to share that nightmare with anyone ever again.

                Derek and Cora stood in the doorway. Peter turned to them.

                "Cora, get Stiles some water. Derek, sit with him. I'm going to—"

                "Wait," Stiles said. "It was just a nightmare. You can all go to bed."

                "You were screaming," Derek said as he sat at the foot of Stiles bed, where Lydia sat in the dream. "Other You had nightmares too. We can all hear how fast your heart is still beating."

                Stiles pushed at Derek's butt with his foot. "Don't sit there." He could feel them all staring at him.

                Derek stood, but he turned back to Stiles and asked, "Did you have nightmares like this back home?"

                "Sometimes." Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. "I'll be fine. I need space. I just may..." He'd almost said he wouldn't sleep more tonight. He was too full of adrenaline. That didn't have to stay true. Stiles grabbed Peter's arm.

                "Derek is better with people," Peter said, which was a weird sentence in its own right, not the least because it was no doubt true.

                "Shut up and do the calming thing," Stiles ordered.

                Immediately, Stiles felt reassured and safe. This pack might not be fully his yet, but they would still accept and protect him, even Peter.

                Peter said, "He's better at this part too, you know."

                "Then I guess you can use the practice. I have to avenge myself for those sparring sessions somehow."

                A smile tugged at Derek's lips, but he had enough control not to laugh. Cora walked away without showing any new emotion. Derek turned to look after her a moment before turning back. He studied Stiles and Peter for a long moment through narrowed eyes. Cora retuned with a glass of water. She left it on the nightstand and tugged her brother out of Stiles' room. He heard their doors close, though they had left his open.

                Stiles reached past Peter for the water and took a sip. It was cold, but not cold like the ice in his dream.

                "On your world, Derek and Cora are your allies, right?" Peter asked.

                "Am I that obvious?"

                "Yes. Mostly. I thought you'd prefer their company."

                Stiles hadn't spent much time with them since coming here, and even less with Malia and Scott. He said, "Would you believe the cognitive dissonance is less with you?"

                "Because you were close to them but always unsure of me?"

                Stiles nodded. He wasn't sure Peter needed the confirmation, but he'd made it sound like a question.

                "Do you need or want to talk about the nightmare? We once fought a nightmare demon, so I can tell you backup helps." He sat and put an arm over Stiles' shoulders. It didn't make the bond emotions stronger, but now Stiles could drop his own arm.

                "I wasn't alone," Stiles said.

                "She's not here now."

                "I'd rather not talk about it. Just sit with me until I can sleep again."

                "Okay," Peter agreed, and he did.


	17. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles assembles the ink.

Stiles' hands shook with the force of the nemeton's energy. It shot through him like impatient lightning wreaking havoc in the atmosphere of his flesh. The current pulled, tugged, and jerked in ragged, random patterns intent on burning him hollow. Stiles had known the nemeton's energy was rough and vengeful. He hadn't recognized its depth.

                "Something's wrong." Malia's voice cut through his concentration. "Your hands are shaking."

                This would work. Peter wanted him to try. The witch's books said the spider venom should buy him time, even against a powerful binding. They said the broken nemeton, once awoken, was as powerful and dangerous as an intact nemeton. They said banshees listened to other worlds. This would work.

                "I'm fine. Please shut up." Stiles tried to even out his breathing. He tried to steady his hands and his heart.

                He shook with power.

                Deaton had finally proven useful, supplying mountain ash and ethanol and drawing Lydia's blood. Assembling the ink itself was simple. It only needed the nemeton's power now. If Malia kept distracting him, the ink would be destroyed instead of activated. The nemeton didn't want to sit quietly in a vial waiting for the right moment. It wanted to strike hard and fast even if that meant ripping through Stiles.

                Power flooded Stiles' veins, climbing from where his fingertips touched the nemeton's rough bark up his fingers, his hand, his arm. The nemeton sensed his intent. He needed this power to bind the demon eye. The nemeton wanted to work directly. It's power climbed his neck. It strove for his eye.

                Stiles was pretty sure that would kill him.

                His body shook with effort as he forced the power away from his eye, his throat, back down his arm.

                "I think you should stop. You look like you're dying. More than usual," Malia said.

                "Shut up," Stiles grunted past clenched teeth.

                Her presence was supposed to help. The nemeton liked Malia, which was to say her years living in the woods left their energies strongly aligned.

                Stiles held the power at his palm. Tremors ran up his arm and along the rest of his body. He reached for the ink. His hand jerked through the air. Stiles hissed through his teeth.

                Malia took hold of his wrist. The spasms jerked his arm, but she held the hand steady. She moved his hand to rest against the vial on ink sitting on the nemeton. Stiles willed the energy to trickle into the vial. Too fast, and the vial would explode, burning up the ink and sending a backlash of energy through Stiles.

                His body shook with the effort of forcing such wild energy into so fine a channel. He collapsed against the tree stump. Malia held his hand steady. Power crackled through him. It had been trapped too long. It burned. It demanded release. Lightning broke through his skin, running up his arm along the path it had taken already. Malia growled, lips drawing back from fanged teeth. Her eyes shone blue. She held her hand still.

                Then it was done. The ink was complete.

                Malia panted. She scrambled to her knees and leaned over Stiles. "You're not healing." After studying him a moment longer, she decided, "You can't. That took all your power."

                Stiles nodded. It hurt, but so did everything else. He hoped she understood the gesture past his shaking.

                "I'll get you to the hospital. Just try to stay awake." She lifted him in her arms, and Stiles cried out at the pain of moving. Malia winced. And absorbed some of his pain. "Sorry."

                "Vial too," Stiles grunted.

                "You almost died, and you're worried about a vial."

                "I don't want to do it again." Stiles throat was sore, but most of his discomfort speaking came from moving his jaw.

                "I'm putting you in the car first."

                Stiles grunted his understanding.

                The seatbelt rubbed against his neck. It burned. Malia had cradled his bleeding arm in his lap. He couldn't see much past the blood. Probably good. His thumbnail faced up. A jagged crack ran through it and continued along the rest of his thumb. It was deep.

                Malia returned. She reached over and took more of his pain as she said, "I think I should tell them you were struck by lightning."

                "There's no storm." Stiles eye the sky without moving his neck.

                Malia started driving.

                "Electrocuted?" she asked.

                Stiles tried to shrug. Moving his right shoulder felt more like stabbing it. The seatbelt rubbed against his neck. He thought it took skin off with it.

                Past clenched teeth, he said, "Electricity looks different."

                He could only see his thumb. He could see enough.

                "I should ask Melissa," Malia said. She activated the car's Bluetooth.

                Melissa answered the phone saying, "Malia, are you okay?" Stiles guessed Malia didn't call often.

                "Yeah. Stiles is hurt. He's got lightning-shaped gashes from his hand to his face. There's a lot of blood. What should I say happened to him?" Malia took a burst of Stiles' pain again as she spoke.

                Melissa said, "You need to slow the bleeding, but don't tell them anything. Just get him here, and I can handle the rest."

                "I'm driving. I can't do anything but take his pain."

                "Is there a towel in the car?"

                "No." Malia patted Stiles' arm, maybe to reassure him.

                "Any type of clean cloth?"

                "Only what we're wearing."

                "Do you have a jacket?"

                "No. Should I take off my shirt?"

                "Just drive faster. I'll be ready."

                Stiles coughed. Malia took his pain.

                Melissa met them at the door with a wheelchair. Stiles didn't see how bloody he'd gotten Malia's car before they wheeled him into the hospital. The people inside were blurry, and the lights were very bright. Melissa kept telling Stiles to keep his eyes open and stay with her, so he guessed the problems were mostly in his head. No one could examine a patient's wounds in dim light.

                Stiles knew he had lost a lot of blood.

                Malia lifted Stiles onto a bed and held him upright while Melissa cut away his shirt. She checked his arm. She bent around him to look at his neck. Malia lifted his arm, taking pain as she touched him, so Melissa could look at his hand. He hoped it looked clearer to them. All he saw was red.

                "Stiles," Melissa said. Her voice was calm, but insistent enough to reach past the brightness. "Stiles. It's okay to sleep now."

                They moved him so he was lying on the hospital bed. The lights didn't seem so bright anymore.

He didn't know how long he slept.

His dad—the other guy's dad—was there when Stiles woke from a dream about planting nightmares in his own mind. Noah stood with Melissa against the far wall, neither looking at him. Melissa spoke just above a whisper.

                "...scarring. Malia saved his life. Until he wakes up, we won't know if he'll be able to heal any—he's awake." Her eyes had landed on Stiles.

                Stiles tried to sit up because he was an idiot. That didn't work out.

                "Don't push yourself, kiddo," Noah said. He set a hand against Stiles' left shoulder. Bandages covered the other.

                Melissa leaned over Stiles from his right side but didn't touch him. "Do you know what happened to you?"

                "Your nemeton is a fucking bastard," Stiles choked out. His throat was dry, and speaking left him coughing. "I'm thirsty."

                Noah said, "I can tilt the bed up. Let me know if it hurts, and we'll stop."

                Stiles right arm and neck felt stiff and heavy, but the sting of pain remained distant.

                "How drugged am I?" he asked. It had definitely hurt more than this.

                "Significantly."

                "Cool."

                Melissa returned with a paper cup of water with a blue bendy straw. Stiles hadn't noticed her leaving. In his defense, the corners of his vision were blurrier than the center, and he'd been looking at Noah. Melissa held the cup for him while he sipped. Stiles wiggled the fingers of his left arm with no trouble. Maybe she thought he was too loopy to hold anything.

                "You weren't electrocuted, but the wounds are shaped like Lichtenberg figures. It looks like..." She paused for a deep breath. "Like something exploded out of your flesh. You have stitches running from your fingertips to your jaw. No one can explain your wounds, so you remember nothing, okay?"

                Stiles tried to nod but winced at the pain in his neck. His hand. She'd said the stitches ran from the _tips_ of his fingers. "Nerve damage?" he asked.

                "We don't know how bad it is yet. If you have any magic at all, focus it on your hand."

                "Fuck." Stiles needed to use that hand to tattoo the new binding, but he had no power. Even his tattoos sat uselessly in his skin now that he'd been drained completely. He winced again. His tattoos. If he was drained, he couldn't move them. They would sit in their real locations, highly visible on his face especially. He asked, "How did you explain my tattoos?"

                "The surgeons didn't ask, and we haven't let anyone else see you." Melissa motioned to closed blinds blocking every window.

                "How long do I have to stay here?" Stiles asked.

                "You can leave when you can clear your face," Melissa said, raising her eyebrows for emphasis. "I assume that'll be about the time you can heal yourself too."

                Stiles sighed. "I'll work on it."

                Noah ordered, "You'll work on resting first."

                "I'll start with a nap," Stiles agreed. His eyelids had grown heavy again.


	18. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hales have unexpected visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't swear to it, but I think this may be the longest chapter in this fic, and one of few I wrote as a single continuous scene from the start.

Other Stiles had set up his desk for long sessions. He had a stash of snacks in his drawer and the comfiest computer chair Stiles' butt had ever known. None of that stopped Stiles from going cross-eyed every once in a while, but he figured that was inevitable.

                Derek came through the literal secret entrance to the basement with a mug and a bad case of bed head. He sipped what was probably coffee and gave Stiles a judging kind of look. "It's six a.m., Stiles."

                "Cool. Did Other Me say whether he thought a labyrinth or ouroboros created more deterministic structuring? Because I've had a bad experience with some docs who used an ouroboros symbol sometimes." Stiles had a highlighter he'd taken from Derek's desk. He clicked the cap off and on.

                "He didn't talk much about his research into bindings because we'd have stopped him from becoming host to a nightmare." Derek rubbed a hand through his hair so it stood up even worse. "You've been up all night, haven't you?" He paused to raise an eyebrow for emphasis. "Again."

                Stiles waved the question away. "Most of this is designed to work on a subconscious level, so he likely intuited rather than decided anyway."

                "Research won't do any good if you don't stop to tell Lydia about it," Derek said as he sat at his own desk behind a stack of books.

                "She hasn't tried to reach me anyway," Stiles said. The void must have scared her away. She'd never looked into it before, and even with a safety filter, pure chaos was horrifying.

                "How do you know?" Derek asked.

                "I can feel it. More accurately, I can feel the lack of what I now realize was her reaching for me." Stiles switched tabs a few times until he found a passage he'd bookmarked on connection. While few bindings used blood like Other Stiles had, they still relied on a powerful connection to the host's human identity. Without that anchor, the host would be adrift in a sea bent on taking over their body and mind. Stiles hoped for his other self's sake that he hadn't damaged his connection to Lydia by scaring her.

                "You still need to sleep," Derek said. "Maybe it'll give your subconscious a chance to process what you're learning."

                "Clever strategy," Stiles said. Derek had been pushing Stiles to sleep and eat all week while Stiles had poured through files on bindings. Every time he thought there was an end in sight, he found more information. He had slept thirteen hours in five days, so he couldn't blame Derek. Peter and Cora only gave him uncomfortable looks. Stiles turned back to Derek. "You're the one who took care of Other Me when he moved in. That's why Peter kept insisting you would take better care of me when after my nightmare."

                "Yes," Derek confirmed. "He used to stay up all night at that desk too."

                "I'm not even sleepy," Stiles said.

                "Yes, you are."

                "Was I lying?"

                "Not every lie requires superpowers to detect, and I'm not sure you can tell how tired you are anymore." Derek stared Stiles down over his coffee mug.

                "Oh," Stiles said, remembering he'd written up a practice binding. He dug through the papers on the desk before finding it on the keyboard. He'd written in with the highlighter, but Derek had good eyes. "I'll sleep, but only if you promise to read this and tell me what you think."

                Derek squinted at the page Stiles set on his desk. "Is this a binding?"

                "No—Yes, but no it's not binding anything. It's practice."

                "I'll take a look at it," Derek promised. "Go to bed."

                Stiles did, but he didn't dream of Lydia, just memories of her. They kept fading in and out of other dreams. It all blurred together, so most of what he remembered was an icy blue light.

                He woke to knocking on the door. Three t-shirts tried to trip and kill him on his way there, but he managed to pull it open and greet Peter.

                "That's not a v-neck," Stiles mumbled, staring at Peter's shirt and tie. The spiral tattooed on his neck rose too high to be hidden by the shirt collar. Stiles reached up to poke it, but Peter swatted his hand away.

                "There's pizza in the kitchen," Peter said. "I have a meeting, but Derek will be here if you need anything."

                "You woke me up to tell me Derek was my babysitter?"

                "I woke you up for lunch."

                Stiles remembered Peter had mentioned pizza, then a meeting. "Do you have a job?" Maybe it was a company meeting.

                "I handle the family finances and estate," was all the explanation he gave before leaving.

                Stiles shrugged. He was still dressed from the day before, so he headed directly for the kitchen because pizza sounded like a good idea. Derek was already there. He had Stiles' binding on the counter beside his plate.

                "How did you know I could read this?" Derek asked without looking up.

                Stiles grabbed a plate and several slices as he answered, "Even if you couldn't before, I figured you'd have learned after Other Me got the new eye. You'd want to make sure it was safe and that you could help if he needed it." Stiles had been thrown off at first by the way Derek alternated between soft and distant, but he thought he had a handle on who this Derek was now, mostly.

                Derek frowned at Stiles. "That's right."

                "Is anyone else here?" Stiles asked.

                "No. Cora is having lunch with Scott and Malia. Then they're seeing a movie." His voice betrayed no bitterness at being left out. Even if they usually invited him, he'd have had to stay and watch Stiles today.

                Stiles slid one hand into the pocket he had hidden a pouch of powdered wolfsbane in just in case Derek decided to bite his head off literally when he asked, "Are you just really good friends with Other Me, or was it more?"

                Derek's eyebrows plummeted. His eyes darkened rather than glow. "We're friends, practically family. I don't think you have the right to ask that of me. Do not do it to my sister."

                "I know _she_ wasn't," Stiles assured Derek. Neither was Malia, even though she and Stiles had dated on his world. Only Derek stared at Stiles like an old photograph.

                "But you're not sure about me?" Derek asked.

                "You answered, so I guess I'm sure now," Stiles said. Derek wouldn't have worried about Stiles asking invasive questions of Cora if he was too busy trying to cover up his own lie. Stiles supposed he couldn't get every guess right.

                Derek held up the binding and said, "The false back door is clever, if not groundbreaking. Why hide the real one in the first room?"

                A back door was a way to sever or amend the binding later. It was also a weakness demons could exploit to escape. Stiles had written a series of thirteen false doors leading deeper and deeper into the binding. The last one led back into the second room, creating a seemingly infinite loop and keeping the prisoner away from the real exit in the first room.

                Stiles held up his tattooed wrist. "I imagined the rooms in a spiral. I thought about hiding the door in the middle but figured the prisoner was more likely to grow wise to my plot with each door."

                "And the repeating wouldn't work unless you reset in a later room. Why thirteen?"

                "Unlucky number. Very edgy." He finished a slice of pizza while Derek studied the paper further, then said, "I don't think the walls would hold if they gave up on the doors."

                "That depends on how strong a spirit you're binding. Wall strength isn't about imagining strong materials so much as strong symbols. A spiral would hold better against someone who had wronged you because it's a symbol of vengeance, but it's broken up here by the return to the second room."

                "Is there another way to make it infinite?" Stiles asked.

                "I'm not good enough at this to know," Derek admitted. "You'd have to ask the Other You."

                "I found a copy of the binding he used. It's completely illegible."

                Derek smiled. "You wrote this after five days of study. I think you'll get there."

                "I need context. How impressive is five days?" Stiles asked.

                "It varies by person," Derek explained, "but I'd guess average for this level binding is a few months."

                "That doesn't make sense." Stiles knew he was smart, but that would be Lydia-level advancement.

                "It means you're a natural. Magic can be that way, especially intuitive magic." Derek studied the binding again. "After a few months of practice, you'll be ready to sell these. If the prices on your world are close to ours, you won't need a mundane job."

                "You're kidding."

                Derek shook his head, showing just a hint of smirk. "Binding takes high-level deduction, problem-solving, creativity, intuition, and an understanding—not just knowledge—of the supernatural. Few people qualify, and even fewer actually find training. While it's not necessary, it's also easier for people who can channel magic like Stiles."

                Stiles considered making a career of basically selling spells. "I'll have to grow a wizard beard and figure out how to seem more eccentric."

                Derek chuckled. "You're eccentric enough, I think."

                "What if I collected blown glass figurines and gave them all names and called them my familiars?" Stiles spread his hands and waggled his eyebrows.

                "No, you should weave tiny living terrariums into your beard and claim they're other worlds," Derek countered, still smiling.

                "I can pretend one is this world and tell people that's where I learned binding." Stiles shoved more pizza into his mouth.

                His world's Derek mostly stuck to angry jokes. This Derek was less angry overall, so maybe it'd unlocked a secret sense of innocent humor.

                Derek's smile fell. He turned away from Stiles, pulling his phone from his pocket. Just after Derek sent a text, Stiles' cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a group text from Derek, sent to the entire pack. It said, **Ravens here.**

                The doorbell rang.

                Stiles' foot caught in the legs of the barstool when he tried to hop down, but he caught himself with a hand on the counter. Derek was staring, so Stiles gave him a thumbs up. Derek's eyebrows stayed tightly furrowed. The line of his mouth thinned. The doorbell rang again.

                "Do we answer?" Stiles asked.

                One of Derek's eyebrows shot up.

                "Okay, I don't know what that looks means." Stiles jabbed a finger at Derek.

                Derek and Stiles received texts simultaneously from Scott. It read, **Omw.** Another immediately followed. **With Cora & Malia.**

                Derek said, "I don't think we should engage." He frowned at Stiles.

                "We might not have a choice," Stiles noted. The contractor had torn most of the old baseboards up but had barely started installing mountain ash. Their only hope was that Other Stiles' spells would hold the wereravens back. Stiles guessed they had one other hope: "What if they're just here to talk?"

                Derek's eyebrow found its way back down, as did the corners of his mouth. "Stiles, you're the one they killed."

                Stiles said, "They also helped Peter and I escape the hunters because they want something from me other than a corpse." He made a face. "But I'm not saying we should trust them. If I ever tell you to trust anyone, assume I've been replaced by an evil clone."

                "Are you taking this seriously?" Derek asked.

                "I'm not sure," Stiles admitted. He'd upped his number of hours slept over five days to nineteen, but he could still be a little delirious. There definitely should be more anger and anxiety. Stiles generally felt a lot of those. "No," he decided. "I'm not feeling right."

                A raven landed on the kitchen windowsill and began tapping on the glass with its beak. Stiles waved for it to be patient.

                "You need more sleep," Derek decided.

                "Can't right now," Stiles pointed out. His bedroom might help though. Other Stiles had already prepped the room to form a mountain ash circle. Stiles waved goodbye to the raven and dragged Derek out of the kitchen. The raven resumed tapping on the window while one of the others rang the doorbell.

                Stiles closed the bedroom door before closing the ash circle. Then he settled on the bed and prepared to wait. Maybe he could nap after all. The blinds and curtains were dawn, but a tapping started at the window. Stiles grimaced. No napping to that.

                Derek looked around frowning. "What now?" he asked.

                "Depends." Either Other Stiles' protections would hold the ravens outside, or they'd make it into the house and probably trash it since they couldn't reach Stiles. Maybe they could chat through the door.

                Derek sent, **ETA?** on the group text and sat at the foot of the bed.

                Scott responded, **20 min.**

                Derek scowled at the phone like it'd wronged him. He sighed after a moment and put his phone away.

                An undignified squawk came from the window.

                Derek grinned. "He must have tried to open it."

                "Your face is scary right now," Stiles said.

                "You should see your own face. The bags under your eyes could pull the ravens into some kind of abyss."

                Stiles lay down and dropped his feet into Derek's lap. "Would you prefer I took a nap?"

                Derek shoved Stiles by his legs so hard Stiles' rolled off the bed. "You do that," Derek said.

                Stiles sputtered from the floor. He flailed until he'd righted himself and glared at Derek, who casually took a book from Stiles' nightstand and started reading, losing Stiles' place in the process since it'd been open to the page he was on.

                "Six weeks," Stiles realized. He leaned his back against the nightstand.

                Derek raised an eyebrow in question.

                "How long it took me to call the room mine without correcting myself."

                Derek set the book back down. "I know it's taking time."

                "A lot of time." He'd been there a month and a half. Even knowing he'd been with the Wild Hunt twice as long didn't make it feel better. Stiles only had until August before he had to go to DC.

                "How many supernatural problems have you solved in less?" Derek gave Stiles a moment to think it over before continuing. "These things take time."

                Stiles squinted his eyes and screwed up his mouth to show what he thought of taking time.

                Stiles' phone rang. Peter. Stiles answered, "Yo, did you get Derek's text?"

                "Are they in the house?" Peter asked, voice strained.

                "I'm fine, thanks," Stiles said. "But our guests are annoyed with the wait."

                "Are they inside?" Peter growled. The phone speaker crackled, unable to fully project the sound.

                "No. We're holed up in my room, but I don't think they've entered the house." Stiles glared at the wall since he couldn't see the phone with it pressed to his ear.

                "I'm on my way back. I can reschedule this meeting."

                Derek leaned closer and raised his voice so the phone's mic could pick it up, "The others are close. We'll be fine."

                "I'm not leaving you with enemies at the house."

                "This meeting is important," Derek pressed.

                Stiles got the impression 'meeting' was a euphemism for 'therapy,' and that Derek took care of much more of the pack than just Stiles.

                "I'll work it out," Peter snapped. "I'm already on my way back." He hung up.

                Derek frowned.

                "If he says he'll be fine, then we should focus on how he's our strongest fighter, and we may need that," Stiles said.

                "I know. He just really needed..." Derek shrugged.

                "Derek, are you the mom friend? Pack mom?" Stiles was more certain now that Derek had told the truth. He wasn't in love with Other Stiles; he was in love with taking care of everyone.

                "This isn't a joke, Stiles." Derek's eyes flashed blue.

                "Apparently not," Stiles said. This Derek rarely showed his eyes.

                Derek's eyes faded to hazel, and he said, "The others should arrive any minute. We'll have to leave this room or leave them alone with the ravens."

                "Peter seems to want them out of the house. Maybe we entertain our guests on the porch?" Stiles suggested.

                "Maybe you should wait here."

                "I'm not staying behind," Stiles said, already tugging on his shoes.

                "What are you going to fight them with? Wolfsbane doesn't work on birds." Derek stood. He began pacing the room.

                "They're here for me, so I find it unlikely they'd just leave me be in here and stay with you." Stiles dug in the nightstand drawer for mistletoe, and dropped it into his pocket. "And wolfsbane isn't the only weapon here. I also have... my quick thinking and sarcasm."  
                "How are you still alive?" Derek groaned.

                "Quick thinking and sarcasm," Stiles repeated.

                "Fine. Don't let them kill you this time."

                "Roger that."

                Derek cocked his head. "Cora's car. Let's go."

                With a wave of his hand, Stiles broke the ash circle and stepped into the hall.

                "Close it again," Derek said. "You can run here if they get in."

                "And you?"

                "If you're fast enough, you'll be able to open and close it again. If you're not, then you're the one who can't fight back."

                Stiles frowned but complied. He led the way to the front door, but Derek caught his shoulder before he opened it. He pulled Stiles back and opened the door himself.

                All three wereravens waited within sight. Merc lounged in a patio chair with his boots on the porch railing. Piper stood at the base of the steps facing Cora, Malia, and Scott, who had their backs to Cora's car. Jacob faced the door with a grin on his face.

                Derek stepped forward, coming face-to-face with Jacob. Stiles stepped out behind him and shut the front door. Jacob's grin widened. He ignored Derek and stared past him to Stiles. Stiles raised his hands in what he hoped was a multiversal signal for "What?"

                Jacob said, "I'm here to play a game, Stiles."

                "Sorry, I never liked Saw," Stiles replied. "I prefer pizza, which is what you interrupted." Stiles crossed his arms.

                Jacob mirrored the gesture. It looked more intimidating on him. "Two truths and a lie. One: You are powerless. Two: You are void. Three: You are leaving with me."

                "I see what you did there," Stiles said. Either he accepted the void, or Jacob would kidnap Stiles and _make_ him. "You're assuming a lot about your strength."

                Derek still stood between them, claws splayed at his sides. The others stalked nearer the house, but Piper cut them off midway. With a drawn-out sigh, Merc stood, dusted off his pants, and flew in raven form to join Piper.

                "Do you like riddles then?" Jacob asked.

                "No. I've already done the riddle thing." Stiles closed his hand into a fist around the mistletoe in his pocket. He'd seen mistletoe reveal Jennifer Blake's true face and hoped it worked on wereraven magic.

                "I was hoping you'd be more fun, Stiles."

                "Not many people call me fun, actually." Not that Stiles bothered to speak to many people outside the pack.

                Jacob ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking. "Why did we come here today?"

                "I don't care for guessing games either."

                "We don't have much time, Stiles. Why did I come here today?"

                "Ugh." Stiles rolled his eyes.

                What could limit the wereravens' time? The hunters never came here; Stiles wasn't sure they could. The ravens had no other enemies in Beacon Hills that Stiles knew of. Peter would be back soon.

                "You came today because you knew the alpha would be away," Stiles said. They had either spied on Peter or gotten access to his therapists schedule.

                Derek said, "Stiles, set a hand on my back and keep it there."

                He probably wanted to share an emotion. Stiles saw no harm in it. He set his left hand against Derek's back. His shirt was soft. The not-quite familiar reassurance Stiles expected from the pack was absent, replaced by spikes of caution.

                Stiles realized he'd recommended humoring the ravens. He'd insisted on being here to speak with them—though that was normal for him. But the longer he'd spoken to Jacob, the more he'd wanted a puzzle to solve and the more he'd felt he could afford  to play along.

                They could manipulate his emotions.

                However the ravens did it didn't involve physical contact like the pack bond. And it didn't make itself known.

                Jacob cocked his head, first one way, then the other.

                "You wanted to reach me while Peter was away because you thought he was protecting me from you," Stiles said. He gripped his hand into a fist around the mistletoe. It dulled supernatural powers too. It was how Deaton had saved Lydia from the hole in her head. Since it was poisonous, he couldn't use it on himself.

                "Is this your protector now?" Jacob asked, grin twisting into a sneer.

                Stiles had guessed wrong. Jacob hadn't gotten angry when Stiles touched Derek. He'd waited until Stiles said they'd come when he lost his protector. So far, the ravens had seemed pleased when Stiles solved their puzzles. They wanted him to prove himself and join them. Stiles grinned. That meant all he had to do was be a fool.

                "Yes," Stiles answered. "I'm part of this pack. They'll protect me."

                "And what is it you do for them?" Jacob asked, face shadowed by the dark sneer.

                Definitely not communicate with another dimension or fortify their house. "I stay alive until I can switch places with other me again," Stiles said. He should back that up by retreating, but he couldn't bring himself to.

                Out in the yard, the others argued, though nothing had come to blows. The ravens seemed content to avoid a fight even though beating the pack would be the fastest way to get Stiles away from them. Even Jacob loomed over Derek from a careful distance. Only his shadow touched Derek. Stiles paused, eyeing Derek's arm. The shadow didn't just touch Derek, it wrapped around him rather than be cast on the porch behind him. The shadow didn't move, and Derek seemed unaffected by the contact. It could be a glitch in an illusion.

                Stiles said, "Look, fight or leave. I'm still hungry, and I want to go back to sleep."

                If Stiles was wrong, they would be in trouble.

                Derek growled. He faced away from Stiles, so it was hard to say whether he meant it to admonish Stiles or threaten Jacob.

                "You won't provoke me, Stiles," Jacob said.

                Stiles rolled his eyes. He scanned the trees surrounding the house. The ravens had led the hunters on a wild goose chase from inside the hotel room with no line of sight. They could be anywhere.

                Jacob said, "Last chance. Why did we come here today?"

                They hadn't, at least not all of them. Stiles took his phone from his pocket and called Peter.

                "I'm almost there," Peter said as soon as he answered.

                Stiles eyed Jacob. They could obviously hear him. Did they have some way to observe over long distances? Piper had given them a time to move from the hotel room, but only after Peter verified only two hunters remained. They'd played him better than he thought. One raven was here, probably placed where they could hear both conversations and make the illusions respond.

                Stiles wished he could tell Peter without the ravens hearing. Even if he sent a text, they could read it over Peter's shoulder, assuming Peter read it at all since he was driving.

                "Get out of the car. Two of the ravens are with you."

                Peter didn't answer. Stiles heard a crash before the call disconnected.

                Jacob asked, "Just how many ravens do you think are in my flock?"

                Stiles eyed the grass. The raven had to be there. Peter had said their senses couldn't reach much farther than a human's, and they would want to hear both conversations clearly. A patch of grass lay flat, apparently trampled, while the surrounding grass stood tall, shaking with the uneven breeze.

                "Derek, there, now." Stiles pointed and pumped as much urgency into his voice as possible.

                Derek leapt across the yard. The illusions blinked out when he tackled Piper to the ground. She'd handled the illusion last time too, assuming that wasn't a trick.

                Claws settled against Stiles' throat from behind. "You were wrong," Jacob said.

                If Piper always handled illusions, maybe only she could. With Jacob here, Stiles felt comfortable assuming he had been the one manipulating Stiles' emotions. The illusory Jacob hadn't reacted to the power being blocked because Piper hadn't felt it.

                "Only Merc visited Peter," Stiles said. Each raven had a different power, which meant his warning to Lydia had been useless. Lair wouldn't fight them with illusions. Stiles only knew two powers so far. "Why Merc?"

                Jacob tapped his fingers impatiently. His claws pricked at Stiles' neck.

                Stiles guessed that meant he should be able to figure it out. The ravens worked together, each using their power for the benefit of the group. The only time Stiles had seen one of them alone was when Jacob attacked him. He had transformed into a raven.

                Piper could have been there, hiding in the trees. Would they trust her illusions for their escapes knowing they had visible flaws? Stiles hadn't noticed anything strange the others times he encountered the ravens. Was that because he hadn't been looking or because there had been nothing to see?

                Maybe instead of illusions, one of them could transform. It was possible Merc's power worked on the other wereravens. Then why not anyone else? Stiles bit his lip. They could have been hiding it. Or maybe, unlike Jacob's power, it required either consent or for the target to be a wereraven. Stiles didn't have enough information. Jacob wanted him to guess. Stiles hoped he wouldn't die for guessing wrong.

                Stiles took a chance at answering his own question, "Because shapeshifting gives Merc an advantage in both agility and strength."

                Piper kept trying to break away and create copies of herself to confuse the betas. There were too many for her. Even if she broke one grip, the others had hold of her. No one chased the fakes.

                Stiles could feel Jacob's claws. He suspected if Piper could make the illusions physical, at least one of them would have touched someone. He didn't want to lose a hand, so he leaned back against Jacob's chest to test his corporeality.

                "Yes," Jacob noted. "I'm real."

                "Good," Stiles said. He tossed mistletoe dust in Jacob's face.

                Jacob stumbled back, sneezing. Stiles threw mountain ash into a circle around him. He'd never seen mountain ash used on a wereraven, so he hopped over the porch railing and ran toward the others before Jacob could recover from the mistletoe.

                Scott saw Stiles coming and moved to stand between him and Jacob. Malia jumped back when Stiles reached into his pocket. Stiles threw a ring of mountain ash, trapping Piper, Cora, and Derek together.

                Stiles spun to see Jacob beating at the barrier. So it worked.

                Stiles grabbed Scott by his arm. "Peter may be in trouble. The third raven can shapeshift. Can you track them?"

                A howl came from the woods in the direction of the main road. It sounded less like a wolf than a roaring beast. Stiles knew that howl.

                "He's that way," Scott said, pointing, because he was a smartass. But he ran toward the sound only a second behind Malia.

                Stiles hesitated. He could stay with the ravens he'd trapped to guard them. Or he could follow the others and trap the last raven too.

                "Go!" Derek shouted.

                Stiles bolted for the woods after Scott and Malia. Peter howled again. The betas were barely visible among the trees, darting in and out of sight.

                Something inhuman shrieked. Not Peter, so it must be Merc. A figure seven feet tall and covered in feathers and blood crashed back-first into a tree a few paces from Stiles. Merc shrieked again from a black beak filled with jagged teeth. Blood matted the feathers to his too-long limbs. His fingers and toes ended in talons. Gashes covered his body, the deepest ones in his chest.

                A beast alpha leapt past Stiles and smashed into Merc, beating him against the tree again. Stiles hadn't seen Peter like this since Derek killed him.

                "I can trap him with mountain ash," Stiles said, reaching into his pocket for the last pouch stashed there. "But I need you to move back."

                Peter pinned Merc against the tree by his feathered throat. Merc shrank into a bird's form. Peter tightened his grip.

                Stiles raised his arm, ready to throw the ash. "Peter, just throw him on the ground!"

                Merc shrank further, then grew again, neck stretching to expand Peter's grip. Peter dug his claws into Merc's throat and ripped his head off. Merc's body shifted back to human. His purple eyes faded to green. Peter turned back to Stiles, still holding Merc's head. Merc's body fell to the ground. Blood dripped from Peter's claws.

                Stiles threw the ash. It formed a circle around Peter.

                "Wait here," Stiles ordered.

                He ran back to the house. Everyone had stayed where he'd left them.

                "Derek, Cora," Stiles said, coming to a stop by their circle. "Peter just killed Merc. Is he going to do the same to these two?"

                "Probably," Derek said.

                Cora asked, "All you said was 'wait here.' Why'd he listen?"

                "Mountain ash," Stiles said. "Is there a place we can lock these two away safely? Away from Peter?"

                Derek's eyes had widened in surprise. "We might have to lock you away to protect you from him." He didn't sound like he was joking.

                "He shouldn't be so easy to catch then," Stiles said.

                Piper shook between the two wolves still holding her despite the circle. She had stopped trying to pull away and stood with her head down, crying. Her friend had just been killed.

                Scott jogged to Stiles from the tree line. "Peter's angry, but he shifted back. Malia's with him."

                Jacob called from the porch, "I thought I came here to test you. I'd say you more than passed, but we'll leave if you free us. Just pass word to Lair if she returns."

                Stiles approached the porch but kept back from Jacob to be safe. "You know I can't trust you."

                "You don't have to trust me. You have to outsmart me." Jacob had lost his smug air.

                "You studied us. You must have known Peter is a killer." Stiles paced. He needed a way to move the ravens safely.

                Back home, Scott usually managed these things by making allies of his enemies or waiting until someone else took them out. Evil had a way of fighting itself.

                Jacob frowned into the distance. "We didn't anticipate losing, especially not with their magic-user gone."

                "You were outnumbered." Stiles ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, then grabbed a fistful and tugged.

                "Six has never been enough to beat us before. Even Lair, when we recruited her, outsmarted us to escape, not to win." Jacob had crossed his arms again. His muscles seemed less intimidating now.

                "Tell me Lair's power," Stiles said. "And remember you're bargaining for your lives." Not that Stiles meant to let them die, but Jacob didn't know that. By his expression, neither did Scott.

                "Lair wasn't her name before. What do you think is her power?" Jacob sneered.

                "She makes camp." Stiles sighed.

                "Pocket dimension," Jacob specified. "Very useful."

                "How do I get home?" Stiles asked.

                "On a spider's back," Jacob said. "But you weren't just carried here. Your counterpart traded places with you. That's how spiders are made, not fed."

                "How does that process work, exactly?" Stiles tried to think and listen to Jacob at the same time. Back home, they'd used Eichen House to hold Peter once. Stiles wondered if they had an Eichen here. He wondered if it was as terrible a place here as back home.

                "First, she infects him with her venom. If he survives, he displaces himself, trading places with a doppelganger in a parallel universe. The spider doesn't always pick the world, though it's not unheard of." Jacob paused to give Stiles a chance to ask why he'd been chosen. Stiles motioned for Jacob to continue instead. "The spider has to make him consume his own displacement energy, usually by stripping him of power and facing him with death. The venom in his system lets him feel the displacement and draw it in. Once he's eaten it away, he can feed on others' displacement. If she bites him again once he's fed on someone else, he will become a spider."

                Stiles nodded. He could just lock the ravens up somewhere and trap them in mountain ash. Scott would help him to avoid the killing. Peter would find them eventually anyway, by following Scott or Stiles if necessary. If he had time to calm down, he might let them live. Stiles didn't know. This was their first battle since he arrived.

                Stiles asked, "How late in the process can it be reversed?"

                "Any time before the final bite, but I don't see a way for either of you to get home unless he goes through with it."

                "There must be a way," Stiles muttered.

                "I can only think of two. The first only works for you. Come with me, and we'll find you a ride home. We can sense the void, which means we can find bridges and spiders." Jacob held a hand out like he thought Stiles might accept.

                Stiles shook his head. "I won't join you. Was I really worth all this?"

                "You might have been," Jacob said, "but no, you weren't worth Merc's life. When we sensed the void and the damage to the nemeton, we should have seen if for the trap it was and run."

                " Amara lured you here?"

                "She needed someone other than Stiles to feed on over there. We thought she would transport all four of us." Jacob shook his head. "It seems everyone's gotten the best of us."

                Back home, they had guessed the spider and ravens traded to each have their best Stiles. If Jacob was telling the truth, Amara had made no such deal. She probably left the ravens here to keep Stiles busy so he couldn't use the void to get home. Stiles wasn't the only one to beat Jacob and his flock.

                "The other way I could get back?" Stiles couldn't hand Jacob and Piper over to the hunters. They would kill the ravens as fast as Peter.

                "You won't like it," Jacob warned.

                "I didn't like the first one either."

                "The only way to pre-select a world is to infect the target's counterpart too." Jacob raised his eyebrows.

                Stiles squinted his eyes. He'd been bitten the night he was displaced. "I wouldn't make a good spider."

                "No, you wouldn't," Jacob agreed. "But if you try, you might make a bad one. Might. I think your chances of transforming are lower than his."

                "Why?"

                "The void."

                Stiles scowled. He didn't have power to be stripped of, and feeding on displacement would never be his last resort because he had another. He asked, "Did your spying get you my phone number?"

                "Why?" Jacob seemed genuinely confused.

                "Answer."

                "Yes."

                "Text me. I'll let you know if I have any more questions, and it'll be easier for me to put Lair in contact with you." Stiles tugged at his hair again. He had no other alternatives, not if he wanted to avoid killing them. "If I ever see you again without an invitation, I'll let Peter kill you. Hell, I'll help."

                "I can live with that," Jacob agreed. "Piper?"

                "I just want to leave," she said. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her voice was clear.

                "Then we agree to your terms, Stiles," Jacob said. His mouth twisted into a sour shape. "But I'd like to recover Merc's body."

                "We'll leave him where he is. I suggest you get away for now and return for him later, just in case Peter doesn't agree with me." Stiles motioned to Scott. "Cover me." He released first Jacob, then Piper. They ran for the woods, opposite the direction Peter waited. Stiles turned the other way to free the alpha.

                Peter stood naked at the center of his ash circle. Malia sat on a log just outside it breaking a stick into pieces. Peter looked calm the way the sea looked calm before a storm. He breathed slower than usual in deep, deliberate breaths.

                Peter said, "I'd like to speak to Stiles alone."

                Malia shrugged. "You okay?" she asked Stiles.

                "Yeah."

                She left.

                "You too, Derek," Peter added. He swung his eyes to the right without turning his head. Stiles couldn't see Derek, but Peter waited a moment longer before settling his eyes on Stiles.

                Stiles tried not to look at Peter below the neck since he was dressed only in blood. He tried not to look at Merc's severed head now resting on his lifeless chest. Stiles settled for staring directly into Peter's cold, blue eyes and asked, "Could you hear us?"

                "Yes."

                "How'd I do?" He hoped the question would throw Peter off and distract him from his anger.

                Peter's eyes narrowed. "A solid eight. Next time, trust your alpha."

                "You didn't have to kill Merc," Stiles said.

                "Your threats would have rung hollow if I didn't."

                "I could have improvised something else," Stiles insisted. "Were you close enough to tell if he lied at all?"

                "It sounded true from here." Peter's words remained conversational, but his tone was slow and menacing. He hadn't moved except to breathe and speak, not even his hands.

                "Did you know the spider bit Stiles?" Stiles asked. Peter had tried to hide the pack's history with Amara.

                "I thought I had purged her from him, body and mind," Peter admitted. Stiles supposed that made more sense than shame alone. Peter had erased every trace of the spider except the one that mattered most.

                "I was bitten right before it happened," Stiles said. "I couldn't tell what she was, but it must have been her."

                "I know."

                He hadn't said anything though. Stiles wondered if Peter knew from the start or figured it out more recently.

                Frowning, Stiles sat on the log Malia had vacated. "How long 'till you won't kill me?"

                "I won't kill you," Peter said in the steel-sharp voice he used for quiet threats.

                "Have we ruled out pain and maiming?" Stiles asked.

                Peter's eyes narrowed. "Maiming."

                Stiles rubbed at his eyes. "I just can't do it, Peter. I can't be part of killing someone."

                "You mean 'won't.'"

                "No," Stiles snapped. "I don't. I can't, not again." Stiles squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of Donovan impaled below Stiles, against his satisfaction that Donovan wouldn't be a problem anymore.

                "The guilt gets easier," Peter said.

                "I don't want it to." Stiles closed his hands into fists. "I can't be like Scott, but at least I have the decency to regret that."

                "Decency," Peter repeated.

                "I technically didn't accuse you of lacking it," Stiles said.

                "I don't care about your idea of decency. If I am attacked, I will destroy my enemy. Mercy only invites your enemies to return later, stronger."

                "Sometimes mercy can save you," Stiles said. He didn't expect Peter to understand.

                "Sometimes isn't enough," Peter sneered. "I'd rather be alive than pure."

                Stiles didn't want Peter angry with him. Most of the violence had faded already, but Stiles wasn't worried for his safety. If Peter had been angry since their fight in the abandoned house, then he expressed it through avoidance. Peter let Stiles hide in the basement; he left him for Derek to handle. Stiles didn't want Peter angry with him because Stiles didn't want Peter to avoid him. They needed to work together.

                Stiles _wanted_ to work together. He wanted Peter to forgive him.

                "You understand why I did it right?" Stiles asked before he could stop himself.

                "Fear." Peter spat.

                "Don't say it like a terrible weakness," Stiles said.

                "Everyone feels fear," Peter agreed, sneer still heavy on his face.

                "They don't need to die for us to win," Stiles insisted.

                "I know."

                "Then why did you kill him? I was right there. The ash was ready."

                Peter blinked, slowly like a cat. "Trust."

                That was a little vague for Stiles, but he'd had vaguer.

                Stiles asked, "You mean you don't trust that they'll stay away? Because you didn't know I'd ask them to do that."

                "Didn't I?"

                "Fine, assuming you could predict I would send them away, you still didn't answer the first part." Stiles wanted to move, but he couldn't fidget and keep his eyes trained on Peter's.

                "You can't trust me if you don't understand me," Peter said. "If you understand me, you won't trust me."

                Stiles scrunched up his nose and squinted at Peter. "So you killed him because I don't trust you?"

                "No." Peter said it like Stiles was being dense, but Peter was the one being opaque. After a moment, Peter asked, "Why didn't you throw the ash around us both before I killed him?"

                "I didn't think about it," Stiles admitted. "Maybe I knew you'd take offense."

                "You knew if you locked me in with him, I would kill him," Peter corrected.

                Stiles frowned. "What's your point?"

                "You know I kill," Peter growled. "You know Scott and Cora don't."

                "You think you killed Merc for me? So I wouldn't have to?" Stiles stood and faced the edge of the circle. He didn't step through.

                "I'm the alpha," Peter said. His voice was quieter, but no gentler. "I protect my pack."

                "Then who the hell protects you?" Stiles asked.

                Peter's brows furrowed in confusion. He stood at the center of the circle of ash and breathed slowly, not quite looking at Stiles.

                It was a long moment before Peter said, "Talia did. She's gone now."

                "I'm sorry," Stiles said. "And I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I should have figured the ravens out sooner."

                "How?"

                "I don't know."

                "I heard Merc come after me," Peter said. "I thought a fly had gotten in."

                "You couldn't have known he could do that," Stiles said.

                "Neither could you."

                "They're tricksters," Stiles said. "Wereravens probably manipulated the information in the bestiaries themselves. Not these ravens specifically, but their predecessors. Only the ravens' recruits are supposed to figure them out."

                "I'm beginning to hate tricksters," Peter growled.

                "You hate being inconvenienced or beaten. The nogitsune chose me as a kindred spirit, a trickster by nature, and that part of my personality is why you like me." Stiles had never said any of this aloud. It had never been important enough to share, not when his shame preferred it hidden.

                "When you're working _for_ me," Peter said.

                "I guess I'm an inconvenience at the moment." Stiles looked down at the ash.

                "You realize you defeated five supernaturals, including two alphas, almost singlehandedly today. What would you have done about Scott and Malia?" Peter asked.

                Stiles froze, still staring at the ground. He _had a plan._ It was there in his mind the moment Peter asked for it. He must have already considered it, subconsciously.

                "Stiles?" Peter prompted.

                "I used up all my ash, but I still have wolfsbane and mistletoe on me. It should be enough to slow them down. My room is already a closed circle, so I just have to make it inside. Then I'm free to resupply and trap them too."

                A chilling smile spread over Peter's face.

                "Please go back to angry," Stiles said.

                "The ravens' test was to outwit them. You had the ability to do not only that, but to best your pack too. And without an ounce of power."

                "Just dead plants," Stiles said. He'd have to figure out soon where Other Stiles got his dead plants from since he'd used so much today.

                "Your luck and wit," Peter corrected.

                "Derek helped," Stiles told him.

                "I don't care what Derek did. This is about you." Peter moved at last, taking a step forward and pointing to Stiles. That smile had faded, but so had the edge in his voice.

                Stiles said, "We should conform with the pack before—"

                "I said you could choose." Peter spread his arms. "I lied. You don't have a choice, Stiles. You can't get home."

                "I'm not ready to give up. Maybe Jacob doesn't know everything." Stiles stared in from the edge of the circle. "Maybe he lied. He's still a trickster."

                "He sounded knowledgeable to me. More than that, he sounded beaten." Peter stepped to the circle's inner edge to look Stiles in the eye. "Dream in your secret heart of going back someday, but you live here now."

                Stiles gritted his teeth and made himself stare back into Peter's eyes. He refused to be the first to look away. "I can't give up."

                "There's a difference between diligence and stubbornness, Stiles."

                "Then it's a good thing you already know I'm stubborn."

                Peter bared his teeth. "You can have more than one home. I have a childhood home, and now I live in a home that isn't a burned out husk. They don't cancel each other out, but I can't go back to the old one."

                "My home is with my dad." His dad here was dead.

                "You can't reach your father." Peter's eyes began to glow. The red looked softer in the afternoon light. "If the chance comes along, we'll send you back, but there is nothing within our power that we can do to make it happen. The spider and the other you are both in another universe. They're the only ones who can do anything now."

                Stiles chewed at his lip. "I can't just sit back and let them do all the work."

                "Then you'll be happy to know they'll fight as hard as they can to keep you here." Peter's teeth hadn't shifted, but his eyes maintained a steady glow. "Or do you think they'll let your other self become a spider? Do you think they'll work with Amara knowing she's killing werewolves just to feed and ready to kill Stiles if he fails? When I was killing Kate Argent, did they work with me?"

                "No." They'd killed Peter.

                "They'll stop him from turning. Then they'll kill or drive off the spider. Maybe, if we're very unlucky, she'll try to turn her backup Stiles, but I suspect there's a reason she chose him. I don't think she'd just carry you home because her plans fell apart."

                "Unless I make her," Stiles said.

                "How are you going to do that?"

                Stiles broke the ash circle with a wave of his hand. "Help me figure that out."

                Peter put a hand on Stiles' shoulder where it met his neck. He moved his thumb along Stiles' throat. "You're not worried I'll hurt you?"

                "You were wrong," Stiles said. "If I understand you, I don't need to trust you."

                Peter narrowed his eyes. "You only need to trust yourself."

                Stiles knew Peter wouldn't hurt him. Peter wanted Stiles alive and intact.

                Peter pulled back and turned to the house, saying, "I'm going to get dressed."

                "That's fair," Stiles said. "That's, yeah. You need pants."


	19. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles recovers in the hospital.

Stiles' hand shook. Every ounce of power he regained went straight to the hand, not even holding back to control his tattoos. At this rate, he wouldn't be able to write a new binding, maybe ever. As he healed, he may regenerate power faster, but the more he healed naturally, the less would be left to heal magically.

                He paced his room. He couldn't leave because he couldn't hide his tattoos, but lying in bed all day would drive him insane. He thought pacing this small room would too, if a little slower.

                The door opened. Scott poked his head in. "Hey, can I come in?"

                "Yeah, Scott. What's up?" Stiles climbed back into bed and covered his legs with his blanket like a good patient.

                "Is your hand still shaking?"

                "Like a skinny kid in an ice rink."

                "You'll get there. My mom said you can see a physical therapist if the magic doesn't come back fast enough." Scott settled into the chair beside the bed.

                "I don't think I have that long," Stiles said.

                Scott stayed calm. His voice was soothing. "Can you tell me about your tattoos?"

                "Sure," Stiles said. "A lot of them just feed each others' power or help me connect with magic."

                "Is that why you have so many even though you hate needles?"

                "Pretty much."

                "What's this one do?" Scott pointed to a bolt of lightning on Stiles' forearm.

                "Dude, I summon lightning. It's the lightning one."

                Scott hadn't seen him summon lightning because it had a high chance of fatality, but Stiles thought he must have mentioned that he could.

                "What about the ones I can't see then?" Scott suggested.

                Stiles tugged the blanket back off and twisted his leg to show a hummingbird on his calf with feathers floating down to his ankle. "This one is for speed so I can keep up with the pack. I haven't figured out how to keep from running out of breath, but at least I keep running."

                "How do you choose the designs?"

                "I don't. We don't have an artist in the pack, so we designed the tattoos to, well, design themselves. Except this one." He twisted around and tugged at his hospital gown ties to show Scott the only tattoo actually on his back: the pack spiral. "This is the symbol of our pack."

                "Seems like Peter," Scott said.

                Stiles tugged the gown down in front to show a series of roots over his chest. "This is the one that heals me. Never figured out why I only got the bottom part of a tree."

                "I've seen that before," Scott said. "It looks exactly like Lydia's drawing of the nemeton's roots."

                Stiles supposed patterns must repeat across universes. That was the least interesting part of what Scott had said. "Lydia can draw?" Stiles asked.

                "Yeah, she's really good."

                Stiles needed to text her later.

                He pointed to the bandages over his right arm. "There's a shield under here that lets me push threats away from myself. That's the last one that really does anything specific, except for," he motioned to his face.

                Scott kept his eyes on the bandages. "Why did it go wrong?"

                "Your nemeton and I don't click." Even after Stiles killed a deer for it and kept it company. He should have found time to bake cookies. "It tried to help but didn't trust me to guide it." Stiles frowned.

                "I get that you say these things in metaphors, but I'm not sure how metaphorical trust from a tree works," Scott said. "Is it something we could have helped you with?"

                Stiles shook his head. "That's what Malia was there for. It wouldn't have worked without her, and I don't think any of you could have stopped it from..." he motioned to his wounded arm. He took another moment to decide how to explain to Scott, "Magic has a natural path that it follows to get stuff done. Trust means how easily magic diverges from that path to follow one you set. Your nemeton takes direct and powerful action, so it was difficult for me to divert it to a small, controlled one."

                "So if the magic had followed your directions, it would have 'trusted' you?" Scott asked.

                "It's really an extension of my power being aligned with the wrong tree. Coming from the wrong tree."

                "You're sure there's nothing we can do to help?" Scott asked.

                Stiles shook his head. "I don't have experience with this either, to be honest."

                "You'll let us know if you think of anything, right?" Scott leaned forward and set a hand on Stiles' left arm.

                "Yeah. I want out of here," Stiles assured him.

                The door opened again. Melissa entered with a tray exactly like the one she'd brought every day so far.

                "I don't want hospital food," Stiles said.

                "It's what we've got. Do your best," Melissa ordered.

                Scott snickered. "At least you get room service."

                "Are you volunteering to bring his meals from now on?" Melissa asked.

                "No, I need to go to work. My shift is now. In a few minutes, but I have to leave now to be on time." Scott kept grinning on his way out though.

                Melissa tapped Stiles shoulder to get his attention. "You really do need to eat."

                "I'm not hungry."

                "I know, but your body needs energy to heal and can't get it anywhere else now. You're already underweight, so you don't have any reserve power to pull on."

                He frowned. "How does Jell-o help?"

                "Jell-o makes people happy."

                "I don't want to be happy. I want my hand to work."

                "Happy people heal better." She set her hand back against his shoulder for a reassuring squeeze. "Take your time. You don't have to eat it all at once, and I'll eat the Jell-o for you if it's really that unbearable."

                Stiles could kill demons and run on water, but he hadn't figured out a way to resist Melissa McCall. He took the spoon with his left hand and mechanically shoveled mushy peas into his mouth. He wasn't sure they had a flavor, but he wasn't sure he'd have noticed if they did.

                "It's okay to take your time," Melissa said.

                Stiles didn't look at her.

                He grabbed his phone from the table and texted Lydia, **Bring me one of your tree drawings for reasons.**

She responded with, **????**

He resent his original text.

                "I'm in your world too, right?" Melissa asked.

                "Yeah." Stiles set aside his phone.

                "Do I have a shaved head and ride a motorcycle? Do I use a battle axe?"

                Stiles snorted. "You're just like you. Not a lot of people here are."

                Melissa pretended to pout. "Not even a small axe?"

                Stiles took another bite.

                Melissa continued, "Scott tells me things that are different. Why don't you tell me some that aren't."

                Stiles shrugged.

                "Am I the only one?"

                "I'm sure there are lots of people I don't know," Stiles said.

                "Is your world scarier than this one?"

                "No." Stiles took a bite to buy time to think. "Your son and his friends are powerful. I didn't know a beta could be as strong as Peter is. Maybe that means this world is the scary one."

                "You know the other you has no powers, right?" She waited for Stiles to nod before adding, "I'm not sure power decides which world is scarier."

                Stiles frowned. "They beat a nogitsune. I can't begin to imagine how to do that. Maybe they're strong because their enemies were."

                Melissa shook her head. "They tricked it. They weren't stronger than a nogitsune."

                "They tricked a nogitsune?" Stiles squinted at her.

                "Scott bit it, changing the host."

                Stiles nodded, though he didn't understand.

                "I know you fought at least one powerful demon," Melissa said, pointing to his eye.

                "I was alone when I killed it. They would have stopped me from taking its eye. Peter almost arrived in time." Stiles frowned at the memory. He would still be home if he'd let the pack protect him.

                "How did you lose your eye?"

                Stiles flinched.

                "You don't have to tell me," she assured him.

                "It's okay." Stiles put some Jell-o in his mouth, but it didn't feel happy to him. Just squishy. "Stronger nightmares can affect you when you're awake. It made me believe my eye socket was full of roaches, and I clawed them out. I clawed my eye out."

                "I'm sorry, Stiles."

                He rubbed the healing tattoo on his chest. "I was able to heal the scratches but not regenerate the eye." Even magic had limits.

                "The night you arrived, you healed some serious wounds, and you did it again when Malia broke your arm."

                Stiles nodded. "I think your nemeton has been used for healing since being revived. It's good at it. I don't know if it could have saved my eye."

                "How did you beat the nightmare?" Melissa asked.

                "I learned to cast blood magic."

                Melissa nodded. "You said I'm the same, so why didn't you come live with me?"

                "You offered," Stiles assured her. "I turned you down because Peter was the one who would help me get revenge."

                Melissa leaned forward to grip his shoulder. "You don't need revenge, Stiles. You need support."

                Stiles pushed his food across the plate. If the Melissa back home had known as much as this one, she would have said the same. She would have stopped him. Maybe she would have saved him.

                Melissa squeezed his shoulder. "We can talk about something nicer."

                Stiles shrugged his free shoulder. It still hurt to move much, but at least he could.

                "What's your favorite color?" Melissa leaned back in her chair.

                "You don't know my favorite color?" Stiles asked.

                "I know the other one's. I want to see if yours is different."

                "Blue."

                She smiled. "Favorite movie?"

                "You're not going to tell me if it's the same?"

                "It's the same."

                "Star Wars."

                "Same. Super hero?"

                "Batman, and that one better be the same."

                "It is," she assured him.

                Stiles ate more flavorless peas while Melissa decided what to ask next.

                "You play lacrosse?"

                "I did. I stopped when my dad died."

                "Sorry."

                Stiles shrugged, not sure what else to do.

                Melissa asked, "What's Scott like over there?"

                "He seems younger. He's not an alpha."

                "What about his grades?"

                Stiles laughed. "They're good. He got into UC Davis."

                She nodded, satisfied.

                As Stiles ate, Melissa talked to him. It made the time between bites seem less, but it took him over an hour to finish. Once Melissa left with the empty tray, Lydia entered.

                "They made me wait twenty minutes because you were eating lunch," Lydia complained. "I thought it was something important."

                Stiles shrugged.

                Shaking her head, she whipped out a sheet of paper to wave in Stiles' face. The drawing on it looked exactly like his tattoo. Every branch lined up perfectly.

                "Now explain," she ordered.

                He tugged at his hospital gown until Lydia could see the roots tattooed on his chest. She leaned forward and traced a cold finger over the lines on his skin. "It's exactly the same," she said softly.

                "They're based on the same tree, sort of," Stiles said.

                "Mm-hm."

                "Can you draw other things too?" Stiles asked.

                "Like what?"

                Stiles pointed to his face. "This?"

                "You want a portrait?" Lydia asked.

                "No, the tattoo. Can you redraw it? If I can't write a binding by the time it fails, could you do it for me?"

                Binding didn't require magic. The spirit being bound supplied the power for its own confinement. Designing bindings took training, but still no power. Transcribing bindings didn't even require the scribe understand it or be able to read, only that they placed each line precisely. If Lydia could draw, she might manage that much.

                Lydia took a seat and settled her hands in her lap. "Stiles, I don't know how to work a tattoo gun."

                "You're a fast learner." He held up his hand and watched it tremble. "I need a backup if I'm not ready."

                "I... Let's find out if I can draw it first." She took out her phone. "Hold still. I'm going to get pictures."

                Stiles closed his eyes and waited.

                "Done," Lydia said. "I'll sketch it out tonight and let you see how I did tomorrow."

                Stiles pointed to his cheek with his left hand. "There's a dot missing right here that you'll have to write in. Everything will have to be perfect."

                "I'll do everything I can, Stiles."

                Stiles tapped the fingers of his good hand against the mattress. "Any news from the other guy?"

                "Nothing new." She shrugged, but looked away to the closed window. She brushed her hair behind her shoulder and shifted her legs. None of that was so much a tell as a desperate cry to be called out.

                "You haven't spoken to him."

                Lydia had been obsessed with reaching him at first, so much that she'd run herself into the ground. Something had changed. Stiles' gut grew sour, and he couldn't tell if it was his digesting food or fear.

                "Sure I have," she insisted.

                "What happened?" They needed her speaking to the other guy, both for coordination and to upkeep the connection Stiles relied on for his new binding. Stiles couldn't afford for her to avoid his doppelganger.

                Lydia licked her lips. She'd been looking away already, but turned now to study the wall.

                "Is he dead?" Stiles doubted it, but maybe she'd correct him.

                "No. It's nothing."

                "It's something, or it wouldn't bother you." If Stiles couldn't get it out of her, he'd have to text Scott.

                She took a breath to steady herself. "I just saw something in him I hadn't before."

                "Something that bad?"

                "The void," she whispered.

                "I thought he was powerless."

                "He is, but it's waiting beneath the surface for him to give in." She spoke quickly, like she was desperate to get it out now that someone finally knew. Stiles wondered how long she'd been hiding this.

                "But he hasn't," Stiles said, not sure if he meant it as a question.

                "He hasn't."

                The other guy had been possessed by the nogitsune, so a connection to the void made sense, even if he'd kept it quiet. Lydia's friends were mostly monsters. Lydia herself was a terrifyingly powerful banshee. There had to be something more than just a scary secret power that the other guy hadn't even taken in.

                Stiles asked, "How did you see it?"

                "I sensed it first, or thought I did. He's different from you, and I realized he was different from who he used to be too. But then he showed it to me like it was a threat, and what I saw was so much more than I imagined."

                Stiles wasn't sure if that meant she blamed herself for calling the other guy out or if the void itself had made her afraid of him. Neither would do.

                Stiles asked, "Is he different than he was right before we traded places?"

                "I don't know. If he is, it's not a lot."

                "Then what has changed?"

                Lydia pressed her lips into a thin line. She parted them to say, "It's not him, really. It's separate from him."

                "You said he threatened you," Stiles said.

                "It was more like a threat to himself."

                He'd threatened to accept the power, then. Or implied it. "Do you think he's going to use it?"

                "I don't know. I wouldn't have thought so before, but he hardly seemed like himself."

                Stiles wondered if proximity to the void were enough to change someone. Aloud, he said, "He's probably still himself and had a bad day."

                "I know," Lydia said. "So I don't know why I'm scared."

                "You think he'll do it."

                "He hasn't," she said.

                "But he could. I would."

                She studied her hands.

                Stiles continued, "He's powerless. That means he's different from me. I never passed up a chance for power." It was an exaggeration, but only slightly.

                Lydia said, "I think that's Peter's influence. He's with Peter now."

                "Yes, he is."

                Lydia sighed. "I didn't try to stop seeing him. It just happened. I don't know how to fix it."

                "We'll figure it out. Start by wanting to. Intent goes a long way."

                She nodded. "I'm..." She stood. "I'll go practice drawing."

                Before she was gone, Stiles added, "Try asking Peter. He seems to know a lot about your powers."

                She didn't respond.

                Stiles nodded and waved goodbye with his left hand. He didn't know how to fix a banshee's power, but he had a little time. The nemeton had drained power from his demon eye too, which should slow the fraying. He hoped it had slowed enough.


	20. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles spars with Peter.

Maybe it was a good thing Lydia hadn't been in Stiles' dreams for a while. He spent the whole night reliving his conversation with Peter. She would get the wrong idea because he kept dreaming it accurately, with Peter naked.

                Stiles buried his face in his pillow. Real Peter was perceptive enough. Dream Peter could read his thoughts and throw every hope and fear at him. Some of it wasn't so bad, but some of it was scenes of his father's gravestone or Lydia standing with Stiles at the edge of space and pushing him out into nothing.

                "I can hear that you're awake," Peter said from the hallway.

                Stiles stuck his tongue at Peter, though the closed door meant he couldn't see. Stiles made a sound like sticking his tongue out and hoped Peter would get the message. Training with Peter sucked. It mostly consisted of Stiles getting knocked down.

                "You'll lose less if you get better," Peter taunted.

                "Pretty sure none of the people I'll ever stand a chance against in a fistfight are you." Stiles rolled out of bed. He traded his pajamas for sweats and opened the door.

                Stiles shoved a finger against Peter's chest. "After sparring, you take me for waffles. I want the kind with blueberries and a mountain of whipped cream."

                "Waffles?"

                "What's wrong with waffles?" Waffles had the power to negate restless dreams. Stiles had endured enough bad days of late. He wanted a good one.

                "Just not very ambitious," Peter said, but he hesitated first.

                "Waffles are a noble ambition, and delicious," Stiles insisted. "Besides, it's breakfast, so I want breakfast."

                "Fine. We'll have waffles," Peter promised.

                Stiles winked. "Good idea. I knew I kept you around for something."

                Peter rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth but didn't say anything.

                Stiles counted that as a win. He'd expected Peter to be in a bad mood today. They'd argued too much recently, but Peter seemed about as close as Peter ever got to chipper.

                They went downstairs to the sparring room. Mats covered the floor, which was the only reason Stiles' bruises weren't worse.

                "I miss hunting ravens," Stiles said as they stretched. Not because stretching was bad, but because it was a precursor to pain and humiliation.

                "You mean you miss skipping lessons."

                "Is that what you call beating me up?" Stiles asked.

                "That, and fun."

                "Asshole."

                Peter smirked. "Hands up."

                "Ugh."

                Stiles assumed the defensive stance Peter had taught him. Then he got his ass beat. Not right away, at least not every time. Peter did want Stiles to learn. He just also wanted to be a jerk about it. The more frustrated Stiles got, the more Peter smirked.

                "This isn't funny," Stiles spat.

                "No, but you are," Peter said.

                Stiles kicked his ankle. Peter pushed him down with a strike that knocked the wind from his chest.

                "You're off balance on only one foot. Strike harder and regain your footing faster." He offered Stiles a hand to get up.

                Stiles grunted and let Peter pull him to his feet. "I'm never going to be as fast as you," Stiles reminded him. "Or able to knock you down."

                "I'd be satisfied if you could beat another human."

                "We don't have any of those, and two months does not a master fighter make."

                "You'll get better. I admit you may never be good."

                "Wipe that smirk off your face and get cleaned up," Stiles ordered. "I'm ready for waffles." He left the sparring room before Peter could argue, and Peter didn't stop him.

                Stiles showered quickly because he was hungry. He hoped Peter would do the same. Sometimes he liked to make Stiles wait. It took Stiles a few tries to find a pair of pants that weren't too tight. He needed to do laundry before he ran out. It took as long to find a t-shirt that didn't squeeze at his shoulders, so he amended that to: he needed to do laundry today.

                "Peter, let me know when you're ready," he said and began sorting clothes.

                He found a hamper in the closet that he dumped the dirty stuff into. It piled over the top quickly. Everything he knew was too small went into a pile at the back of the closet. He got the feeling Other Stiles never did laundry either. It was the only reason he would own so many clothes. Many were literally different sizes, so maybe Other Stiles discovered his love for tight pants gradually.

                "What are you doing?" Peter asked.

                Stiles jumped and hit his head on the hanger rod. "Damnit, Peter."

                "It was just a question."

                Stiles squinted and rolled his eyes at the same time so Peter would know he was a jackass. Then he pointed to the clothes he'd been stacking. "These are too small. How can he wear clothes that tight?"

                "They're not so tight on him."

                Stiles looked from Peter, to the clothes, and down at himself. "Are you telling me I'm Fat Stiles?"

                Peter laughed, probably still in a good mood from sparring. "We can call him Skinny Stiles if that makes you feel better."

                "It does not." Stiles had grown up scrawny. He's gained enough weight not to look like a pile of sticks duct taped to the inside of his clothes, but he was still thin. "Oh my God, I'm the skinny magic kid trope in this world."

                "You can buy new clothes," Peter said.

                "Those are fine," Stiles pointed to the hamper. "I just need to keep up with laundry better."

                "Maybe lay off the waffles," Peter suggested.

                "Absolutely not."

                Stiles stalked past Peter, and they headed out to the rental car Peter was driving until he got his own back from the shop.

                "Any word from the other world?" Peter asked.

                "Haven't seen Lydia," Stiles said.

                "Why?"

                "She only liked me because I'm smart, funny, and cute." He kept his voice chipper, hoping Peter would get annoyed and stop talking about Lydia.

                "So?"

                "So she realized I'm not just the parts she liked. I might have been a dick about it." Stiles fiddled with the window control.

                "Stop," Peter ordered.

                "Being a dick?"

                "The window."

                "You could argue that messing with the window is being a dick," Stiles said.

                "You can't contact them at all?" Peter asked.

                "Nope." Stiles grunted. "I never expected to freak out Lydia of all people."

                "Must be bad if it scared a banshee," Peter said.

                "Don't fish." Stiles rolled his eyes.

                "Then are you going to tell me?"

                Stiles only hesitated a moment. If Peter thought he would one day convince Stiles to take on power, he might as well know what he was up against. 

                "It was the void. I'm not touching it really, but I could, I guess. It's hard to explain. I mostly ignore it, but it's always there, just like the darkness around my heart." Stiles rubbed absently at his chest. He felt them both every day now.

                "What are you going to do about Lydia?"

                "I don't think there's anything I can do. It's her power, not mine." Stiles leaned toward Peter. "Why? Do you have any ideas?"

                "No."

                Stiles pulled back and dropped his forehead against the window.

                "Don't be melodramatic. We've reached the restaurant."

                Stiles sat up. "I've found my joy again."

                It was a small, local place. The servers all wore pale green aprons, and the menu had cute hand-drawn waffles instead of photographs.

                Peter waited until they'd been seated and ordered to really speak again. "What do you know about hunters' tactics?"

                "Why?"

                "With the ravens gone, the hunters are the most pressing threat to the pack."

                "I'm not..." Stiles lowered his voice. "I'm not okay with killing people."

                "So plan defensive measures," Peter growled, though softly.

                Over and over, Stiles had thought Peter was demanding too much only to have Peter restate his request within Stiles' limits. He wanted Stiles to work with him, but accepted that it had taken time to trust him. He wanted Stiles to fortify the house, and mountain ash was enough. He wanted Stiles to fit in with the pack, but only until he found a way home. He wanted Stiles to fight for the pack, but only if they were attacked. Scott used to do that for Stiles too, when Stiles struggled with the physical limitations of remaining human. Stiles couldn't do the things Scott could do, so Scott asked him to do different things.

                "Thanks," Stiles said.

                "You're welcome. What for?"

                "You haven't pushed me past a line."

                "But you expected me to?"

                "Yes," Stiles admitted.

                Peter had claimed he killed to protect his pack, both their lives and their souls, but just because Peter said something didn't make it true. Except when it did.

                "Does this mean I'm Good Peter?"

                Stiles laughed. "Maybe chaotic neutral more than evil, but I'm not ready to promote you to good."

                Peter frowned.

                "Do you disapprove of or not understand D&D alignments?"

                "You're chaotic good," Peter said.

                Stiles couldn't argue that even though he had plans to go into the FBI, like Fox Mulder for werewolves. He'd never quite make lawful good.

                Peter continued. "Which means it's not a big step to neutral."

                "Are you trying to make me less good?" Stiles asked. "Because I am a pure-of-heart Disney prince, and you can't corrupt me."

                "Can't I?" Peter smirked.

                The waiter interrupted them with waffles, for which Stiles offered many thanks.

                Stiles dug in while Peter watched with a bemused smile.

                "If you don't eat yours, I might," Stiles said past a mouthful of maybe the best waffles in two universes. "God, why are these so good? Why doesn't this place exist back home?"

                "This is your other self's favorite restaurant." Peter began eating though, so he must have known Stiles would definitely steal his food.

                Stiles got a text. He checked his phone to find it was from Heather. "Shit," he muttered as he opened the message.

                It said, **Hey, Mischief, been a while :D** , which was harmless enough on its own, though he hadn't known she called him Mischief.

                "What?" Peter asked.

                "I never read the texts with Heather to study up on myself." Stiles grimaced at his phone. He couldn't just ignore her.

                Peter said, "It took me over an hour to print those," in the most offended tone.

                "It took you five minutes to print them," Stiles corrected.

                "And seventy to read them."    

                "Does that mean you can impersonate me?"

                "Not convincingly. You're the same person; just be you but more bitter."

                Stiles typed out, **Sorry, I was washing my hair.** He winced when he hit send.

                "What'd you say?" Peter demanded.

                Stiles rolled his eyes and showed him.

                "She's asking about your feelings now," Peter said.

                Stiles turned the phone around. Heather had sent, **How are you doing?**

                "Shit," Stiles said again. "Okay, so we were close. That means I'm honest with her, right?"

                Peter shrugged.

                Stiles sent, **A little better. Tricked Peter into buying me food.**

                **Can I ask you a favor?** she sent back.

                **Of course** , he sent without a second thought. Once it was sent he found the second thoughts, but they were too late.

                **Send me a new picture of you.**

                Aloud, Stiles said, "She wants a selfie."

                "Did she lose all her photos of you?" Peter asked skeptically.

                "I don't know. I don't feel like I would be weird about it, would I?" He took a picture but didn't smile in it. "I'm going to do it," he said as he sent it.

                **Thnx,** she replied. Then sent, **You look good, Mischief.**

                He sent back, **Np ;)**. He immediately regretted the wink. It was too flirty. He should have used a regular smile.

                Stiles set his phone on the table and finished his waffles. Peter had eaten while Stiles texted. Heather had reminded Stiles there was more to the world than the packs and transuniversal travel. He asked, "Do I have college plans?"

                "No. The idea of going to college is too stressful for you right now. You'd have been fine, since clearly you're fine in another universe, but realizing that yourself was too much. You didn't apply anywhere."

                "That was a surprisingly thorough answer," Stiles said.

                Peter frowned. "I knew you would ask eventually."

                "Summer's almost over. If I don't get back soon, I'll be dropping out of college after pulling in a favor to get admitted."

                "Where were you going?"

                "George Washington University in DC."

                "You can take a semester off and apply for the spring after this is all settled." Peter probably thought he was being subtle, but Stiles noticed he had worded it so the solution worked for both universes.

                Stiles asked, "What about the pack? Are they going anywhere?"

                "Malia is going to BHU, so she'll stay close."

                "BHU?"

                "No Beacon Hills University in your universe?"

                Stiles shook his head. "Becoming a college town explains why yours is so much larger than ours."

                Peter continued, "Scott is going to UC Davis."

                "Same for Other Scott."

                "Cora will be studying abroad in Brazil."

                "She's in South America in my universe too, I think. What about the hunters?"

                "The teenagers are going to school out of town, but we've been assured there will still be a hunter presence in Beacon Hills." Peter frowned at the idea of hunters.

                Stiles drummed on the edge of the table. "I wonder what they're doing back home. A lot of us were about to leave town."

                "Think about that when you go to sleep," Peter advised. "Maybe it will help Lydia find you again."

                "You think that will work?" Stiles asked.

                "I think it can't hurt since most magic relies on thought to shape it. Unless you're prone to nightmares about school."

                "After you turned Scott, you chased us in beast alpha form through the high school for half the night. I may have occasional nightmares about school." Peter was only the first of many monsters to chase Stiles through the high school.

                "You survived," Peter said. "When it happened here, I remember you blocked me into the locker room, but instead of running, you stopped to get a look at me."

                "Yeah, I did that."

                Peter smiled. "That was when I knew I wanted you for my pack, assuming you survived the night."

                "Really? A test like the ravens gave?" Stiles crossed his arms.

                "Because you're worth it." The smirk implied Peter had quoted a shampoo slogan intentionally.

                "You bet your wolfy ass I am." Stiles winked.

                Peter rolled his eyes. "Come on. We have errands to run."

                "Errands? No, we only agreed to sparring and waffles. I've done my suffering for the day."

                "You didn't specify, so now we have errands."

                Stiles groaned.

                Errands, apparently, meant Derek was tired of Stiles using his hair gel. Since they were already out—definitely an orchestrated pretense—Peter insisted they get Stiles his own clothes. Then he hated everything Stiles selected. Everything Peter suggested was practically fitted. Stiles had hoped to finally have something loose and comfortable to wear. Peter also kept picking jewel tones, but Stiles wanted plaid. More than one person laughed at them arguing in the middle of the store, shaking shirts at each other.


	21. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noah has a talk with Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the shortest chapter in Displaced. Other scenes that were this small when I wrote them got combined or expanded to make longer chapters.

Stiles kissed his pillow. It was technically the other guy's pillow, but it was home compared to the hospital bed. He dropped onto the bed for three seconds but got restless and stood up.

                "Take it slow, kiddo," Noah said from the doorway. "In or out for dinner?"

                "Huh?"

                "You just got out of the hospital. We're celebrating. Dine in or eat out?" He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

                Stiles shrugged.

                Noah walked across the room and sat on the bed. He patted the spot beside him.

                "I've spent enough time in a bed over the last ten days," Stiles said.

                Noah shrugged. "That'll teach you to have so many tattoos." He patted the bed again. "Sit. We need to talk."

                Stiles sat.

                "I know I haven't been around enough. We try to eat breakfast together, but I always run off before you're done," Noah said.

                "It's fine. Your job is important, and I'm not really him."

                "My son is in a different universe right now too, and I hope with all my heart that someone there is treating him like real family, treating him better than I've treated you." Noah tried to look Stiles in the eye.

                Stiles studied his hands.

                Noah continued, "I stayed away from you, so I didn't notice the obvious. I didn't want to."

                "It's not important," Stiles said.

                "Anyone could see it, but none of us cared enough. His clothes don't even fit you."

                "I'm fine. The tattoos keep me healthy."

                "No, they just keep you alive, and they're weakened now."

                Stiles bit his lip. That hadn't been true when he had the same talk with Derek. Not that Derek had been convinced, but at least Stiles had an argument.

                Stiles said, "I know what Melissa thinks. I just don't feel hunger anymore. The magic messed with my body, but not more than I can handle."

                "Was it the magic, or was it losing your father?" Noah said it gently even though those words could never be gentle.

                "A lot of that happened about the same time." Sacrificing Natalie Martin gave him the power to convert his body's energy into magic.

                "Look at me, son." It was the first time he'd called Stiles that. "I know the plan is to send you home. Until we do, you are my son. It's what I would want for you if I'd been from your world, and it's what I hope the other you can find there, if in another form."

                Looking at Noah felt like looking back in time before Stiles' father died. This was why Stiles didn't keep anything from the house, not even photos. He needed to be strong, but he could feel the pieces of his armor peeling away. He wasn't sure how much had remained anyway. He felt stripped down, vulnerable without his magic and exposed in his weakness.

                "I watched you die," Stiles said.

                "I know. I'm sorry. You've suffered so much, but when it's hard for you to take care of yourself, I'll be here to help."

                "I'm not trying to starve myself," Stiles said. "People always talk about food. I'm not... I just don't process it the same way. It feels... I can feel it convert into magic. It's disgusting; it makes me sick."

                "I'm sorry," Noah said. "There's nothing I can do to help that, but you won't survive if you don't eat."

                "Would you rather I puke it back up? I don't mean sick as a metaphor." The hospital meals Melissa brought had been small, but Stiles hadn't even kept all of those down.

                "If you're losing nutrients to magic, that means you need to eat more, not less." Noah's voice took on a pleading tone. "Just try, Stiles. That's all any of us can do."

                Stiles couldn't say anything. Noah only occasionally called him by name, like calling him 'kid' and 'kiddo' would fool Stiles into thinking he was wanted even as Noah refused to acknowledge him as his son. Stiles hadn't minded, or at least he hadn't held it against Noah. Stiles wasn't his son.

                Noah put an arm around his shoulders. "How about we stay home tonight? We can order a pizza and watch a movie."

                "I don't really watch movies." Stiles spent all his free time downstairs on his laptop, or he had.

                "Netflix has documentaries too, but I'm more of a movie guy myself."

                Stiles swallowed another refusal. Even if it wasn't really him, this was his dad. "Why don't we just see if anything looks good?"

                "That's my boy." Noah smiled.

                Stiles tried to smile back. He thought he got pretty close.


	22. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles pesters Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another smaller-sized chapter, posted tonight because two shorts make one less short.

Stiles dropped onto the couch beside Peter and put his feet on the coffee table. Peter lowered the book he'd been reading to his lap and raised his eyebrows.

                "What about a treaty with the hunters?" Stiles suggested. Even if he focused his planning on defensive measures, Peter believed the best defense was a good murder. Stiles preferred to avoid that.

                "No."

                "You haven't even heard me out yet." Stiles stuck out his lip in an exaggerated pout.

                "I finally understand what 'shut your face' means," Peter said.

                "Many moons ago, ancient peoples knew I would one day be born with a face in need of shutting." Stiles squinted at Peter. He hadn't expected Peter to like the idea, but he'd at least thought Peter would hear him out before shutting him down. He decided to give the pitch anyway. "How often do you attack someone completely unprovoked?"

                "I don't."

                "So we 'agree' not to do that, requiring no change of behavior on our part while allowing us to demand something of the hunters who no doubt think the worst of us." Stiles raised his hands to frame the plan visually. "What about preemptive strikes?"

                "Anytime I have the chance."

                "Which sounds reasonable enough, but do you make sure you have proof they were going to attack first?"

                Peter narrowed his eyes. "If an attack is coming, I stop it."

                "I know, but that's not what I asked."

                "I know what you asked."

                "So you don't care to have proof." Stiles wondered if Peter had deflected because he knew proof was better or because he knew Stiles believed that.

                "I care about the safety of my pack." Peter moved the book from his lap to the coffee table.

                "What if you can better protect your pack by being more careful?" Stiles asked. "Your response should be proportional to the enemy's threat level."

                "Tell me, Stiles. How do you gauge threat level?"

                "Danger, power, history of murdering people, concrete plans to attack my loved ones. The usual."

                Peter studied Stiles. "Your scale would register me a threat, but not you even though you had me helpless as a kitten only days ago."

                Stiles held up a finger. "But I didn't kill you, which supports my scale."

                "Trapping me alone in the woods isolates my pack, weakening them. I would consider it an act of war."

                "Are we at war?" Stiles set a hand against his chest. "You and me?"

                "Hardly."

                "But I trapped you alone in the woods helpless as a kitten and then did whatever I wanted with your pack."

                Peter leaned in to say, "Don't push your luck, Stiles."

                "Apparently, I'm dangerous, so I'll push what I want. Right now I'm pushing the idea of a treaty with the hunters. They leave us alone, we leave them alone. Other threats, we respond but do not instigate. Easy."

                "Not easy."

                "I realize we'd have to negotiate who deals with what threat and how to deal with turning new wolves," Stiles said. He assumed Peter cared about territorial encroachment and direct challenges more than innocent lives. The hunters' code would require they kill any wolf who killed a human. Or since the more evil hunters were alive, any wolf they thought might someday kill a human. Stiles realized he didn't know if Kate Argent was alive. "Oh my God. On my world, you slashed Kate's throat, but she turned into a werejaguar instead of dying. Is she dead here?"

                "She's dead."

                "But are you sure because we thought she was dead too, like we were really sure. She had a funeral, and even Allison didn't know the casket was empty."

                Peter scowled. "I don't want to talk about Kate. I don't want to talk about any hunter. I won't make peace with them."

                "Your pride isn't more important than your life," Stiles said.

                Peter's eye blazed red. "They burned my family alive."

                "You killed the responsible ones." That was what the other Peter said he was doing, and Stiles assumed this Peter felt the same way.

                "And the hunter who killed your father?" Peter asked. "Does she deserve to live?"

                "My dad's not dead."

                "He would be if he lived here." Peter cocked his head. "Which is the reason you may never see him again, doppelganger or otherwise."

                "If you're trying to make me angry to distract me from this treaty plan, stop because I'm going to angrily insist on the treaty. You said yourself, the hunters are our only remaining enemy in town. Clearly, nothing you've tried yet has been enough, so maybe it's time we try something new." Stiles also wouldn't mind not having to fight people who looked like his friends. Jackson wouldn't be so bad, but Allison and Lydia were too important to him.

                "You're the one who changed the subject." Peter had calmed though, eyes fading back to his usual clear blue.

                "That was just a worried interjection. If she came back, who would have jurisdiction? Hunters generally take care of their own, but you're a very angry and vengeful man who spent years trapped in a coma going mad because of her. Your niece and nephew haven't gotten to kill her yet. On my world, Derek grew as a person and left Kate for her brother to hunt."

                Peter looked ready to argue but leaned back and took a deep breath. "You're so judgy."

                Stiles eyed him. Peter's mood could change fast, but this was like lightning on a teeter-totter. "Something is up with you today."

                Peter said, "You interrupted me at a good part of my book."

                Stiles glanced at the book. It was by Asimov, so Stiles suspected Peter had found time to read it before.

                "Is it because Derek's home? Because I think he's in on a lot of your secrets," Stiles said.

                "The basement is soundproofed."

                "Meaning this conversation is private, so you can tell me anything."

                Peter's eye twitched. "No, I can't."

                "Why not? You've already shared some really personal stuff. How can it be worse?" Maybe because Peter couldn't frame it as a revelation about Stiles instead of himself. "Do you need me to go first?"

                "You're being more annoying than usual."

                "Just give me a topic, and I can go from there."

                "Let's start with: my pack human won't leave me alone."

                Stiles snapped his fingers. "Perfect! An exercise in perspective. I have this problem where I can't leave my alpha alone because he won't talk to me. It's almost exactly the opposite of what you have."

                Peter smirked.

                "Why that face?" Stiles asked.

                "You called me your alpha."

                "I'm not really monogamous on the alpha front right now. I'm trying new things, exploring who I am." Stiles wasn't sure where he was going with that.

                "I'm happy to help you find yourself, Stiles," Peter taunted with much too slick a smile.

                "I really think I find myself in helping others. I'm such a people person. If you opened up, it would help me so much."

                "I'm not allowed to have an off day?" Peter asked, humor fading again.

                "Sure, but... I know there's something more. Your eyebrows are pinched together like you've been studying a problem for too long."

                Peter raised an eyebrow. "Are they?"

                "Well, not anymore."

                "It's not something I can discuss with you, Stiles." Peter sighed.

                "Why?"

                "Did you hear what I just told you?"

                "Yeah, but why?"

                "Maybe you're not qualified to help."

                "Maybe, but that's just something you said to throw me off. So I can probably handle it."

                Peter sighed again and leaned back against the couch. "It doesn't matter what you can figure out on your own. I can't discuss it with you."

                "Peter, I'm neither a quitter nor good with personal boundaries."

                "I don't care."

                "Wanna bet which of us is more stubborn?"

                Peter cocked his head. "What about which of us is faster?"

                He leapt off the couch and was out the door before Stiles realized he was alone on the couch.

                Derek popped his head into the room. "Did he just literally run away?"

                "He said you couldn't hear us."

                "I came upstairs for a snack. What did you do?"

                Stiles shrugged. "He said he can't discuss it with me."

                "Then hopefully he calls his therapist. You know he might have left to keep from hurting you, right? Peter has worse anger issues than I do," said the Derek who had never lost his temper that Stiles knew of.

                "I don't think that was it."

                Stiles bit at his nail. Something had been bothering Peter. Stiles should probably let it go.

                He turned back to Derek and asked, "You know everyone's secrets, right?"

                Derek crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

                "I can't figure out what's wrong. He told me about his therapist and that he likes having me around more than other me. What would be less appropriate to tell me than those?" Stiles realized after he'd spoken that he could only confirm Derek knew one of those things to begin with.

                Derek furrowed his brows.

                "I'm just worried," Stiles continued. "It has to be something bad, right? What if he needs help?"

                Derek raised both eyebrows now and tilted his head.

                Stiles frowned. "You know everyone's secrets because you don't share."

                Derek nodded.

                "And because you're nosy as hell," Stiles added.

                Derek shrugged.

                "Do people even tell you, or do you stalk them?"

                Derek shrugged again, but smaller, as if to say a little of both.

                Stiles grumbled to himself a moment before asking, "Do you know what Peter thinks he can't tell me?"

                "He hasn't told me anything either," Derek said.

                "That's not what I asked."

                "I don't know what it is."

                Stiles hadn't expected a straight answer and wondered if that made it more or less likely a lie. Derek didn't lie so much in general, but he might to protect his family.

                Stiles asked, "Do you have a suspicion?"

                Derek furrowed his brows again.

                "Use your words, not your eyebrows."

                Derek furrowed his brows further.

                "I hate you."

                Derek shrugged.

                "Fine, I give." Stiles threw his hands up and marched to the basement to study. At least binding had answers. It was about the only thing left in his life that did.


	23. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia practices writing the binding with Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has nothing to do with this chapter, but the chimera who stabbed Noah Stilinski was also named Noah. It's bothering me.

These bindings were better than Lydia's last batch. Stiles tried to describe the flaws verbally, pointing with his left hand even though he didn't have fine enough control to make the marks right. It was better than his right hand, anyway. He rubbed at his nose, but nothing could weaken the incense smell permeating the house.

                "I have an idea," Lydia said, "but it might be too much for you right now."

                "What?"

                Lydia pulled a marker from her purse. She'd spent several hours tracing the binding with a closed pen before. Stiles wondered how that would be difficult for him.

                "It's washable," Lydia explained. "I can draw the binding on your face. Then you bring the real one to show me where I missed."

                "Lydia, has anyone ever told you you're a genius?"

                "Frequently."

                Stiles had been wearing his tattoos in place to save energy. He pulled the binding to his back.

                Lydia uncapped the marker and got to work, referencing the photos on her phone. Stiles closed his eyes and tried to sit still. It took a long time. It was a complicated binding.

                Eventually, Lydia pulled back and said, "Okay, bring it back." She grimaced when he did. "I see why you're never happy with my drawings."

                "That bad?"

                "Maybe don't look at your face when you wash it."

                "You'll get better," Stiles promised. He hoped she improved quickly enough to save him.

                "Just go wash your face please. I'll try again."

                Stiles knew from her drawings that she would have gotten the whole thing slightly off. He confirmed it in the bathroom mirror. Some lines were too long, others too short. The curves were all slightly too oval.

                "You forgot the dot again," he called.

                They needed to add the missing piece to her reference photo. He couldn't risk her missing it on the real one, and it seemed he couldn't count on her remembering it.

                Stiles turned on the tap with his left hand. He thought the scars on his right had faded a little. Maybe the tremors had lessened. The scars ran up his arm as strongly as they had the first day they took off his bandages, and they reached up onto the right side of his jaw. His whole arm and his neck were stiff with them, and he worried healing his hand alone wouldn't be enough to regain fine control. He took a deep, calming breath. That was a worry for later. He washed the marker from his face.

                Back in the living room, Lydia was studying her phone. "How did you do it?" she asked as he entered the room.

                "It's not the same for me as you," Stiles said. "You're only looking at it visually."

                "But you can sense it magically," Lydia said.

                Stiles nodded. "I could try training you in binding, but it might not be enough. Technically, binding can be done without magic, if you memorize the forms and use the demon's own power to fuel the spell, but it's easier if you can see the magic behind the markings."

                "Maybe I could combine drawing and binding," Lydia suggested.

                "Worth a shot. For now, draw on my face. Remember the dot."

                Lydia winced but readied her marker. When she finished again, she said, "Okay go." She sighed. "At least I drew the dot."

                The doorbell rang.

                "You get the door. I'll wash my face." Stiles headed for the restroom again.

                Stiles snickered at his reflection even though he shouldn't be amused when his life depended on her success. She'd overcompensated, missing several points the opposite way she had last time. The dot was too far left. Stiles washed his face again. Maybe he should have her trace a little more. The curve around the dot had faded further, so he wasn't sure how long she'd have the chance.

                Lydia wasn't in the living room anymore. Stiles found her in the kitchen, unpacking hamburgers from paper sacks with Scott.

                "Lunch?" Stiles asked. He glanced at the clock. Lydia had come over just before nine. He hadn't realized so much time had passed, but it was almost one now.

                "Cheeseburgers and curly fries," Scott said. He kept wrinkling his nose, probably because of the incense.

                Stiles took a seat. He wondered whether Melissa or Noah had put Scott up to this. Sure, Stiles _had_ forgotten to eat, but so had Lydia. They'd both had breakfast.

                Scott asked, "How's art class going?"

                "Let's just say, it's a good thing I plan to be a mathematician," Lydia said.

                "She's gotten less bad," Stiles said as he unwrapped his meal.

                "As you can see, Stiles has every confidence in my ability," Lydia said.

                Scott chuckled. "I feel like proximity to each other increases your sarcasm exponentially. Have you been here all morning?"

                "Pretty much," Lydia said. "I do think sarcasm is the source of his power though."

                "So I should be healed up in no time." Stiles grabbed the drink they'd left nearest him and took a sip. "The hell is this?" He'd forgotten they wouldn't know he preferred water or Sprite. He wondered what the other guy usually drank. Tea, if they'd based his order on it.

                "Iced tea," Scott said. "I might have been reading an article about how much soda damages tooth enamel."

                "Why?"

                "I follow medical blogs?"

                "Why?"

                "I want to be a veterinarian? I know it's talking about human teeth because no one gives their dog soda—I hope no one gives their dog soda." Scott paused, overcome with the horror of someone giving their dog soda.

                Lydia asked, "How long until you recover?"

                "A few more days. I love Pepsi too much to give it up for long." He sipped at his own drink. "Why is it so bitter?"

                Lydia tasted hers before answering. "It's unsweetened and over-steeped. You won't convince me you've never had tea, Scott."

                "I think I usually get sweet tea because it's in a bottle instead of just steeped, but I guess unsweet is better for your teeth. Tea stains pretty badly though. I should see what _it_ does to tooth enamel." He paused. "I'm glad I'm not going to be a dentist."

                Stiles wondered if Scott was babbling because he worried Stiles would know he'd been sent here.

                Stiles turned to Lydia, "What about me? Would you believe we don't have iced tea in my universe?"

                Lydia arched an eyebrow. "Should I?"

                "Nope. I just don't usually drink anything with caffeine, so I was caught off guard."

                "I'm sorry." Scott winced. "I'll remember next time."

                Stiles shrugged. "It's not a big deal."

                Scott asked, "Would you let me know if it was? Or if something else was?"

                "I let you know when I'm bored. Why not trust me to point out bigger problems?"

                Scott coughed.

                Lydia's eye narrowed. "I'm missing something."

                "There's nothing to miss here," Scott said too fast.

                "You're a terrible liar, Scott," Lydia said.

                "It's personal but not mine to share," Scott corrected.

                "About Stiles?"

                "Stiles knows about it." He delivered that sentence convincingly, at least. Probably because it was true.

                Lydia studied them both. "Secrets only make things harder."

                Stiles snorted.

                Lydia blushed.

                Scott leaned toward her. "Am _I_ missing something?"

                Lydia bit her lip. "I'm working on it."

                Scott nodded. "Whatever it is, just let us know if we can help."

                Stiles tried not to snicker at the guilt on Lydia's face. He needed to be supportive. She needed to trust him and rebuild her trust with the other guy. Stiles still snickered.

                "Really, Stiles?" Scott asked.

                "Just remember I'm like the evil Stiles."

                Lydia corrected him, "More morally grey Stiles."

                "Literally a darach Stiles," Stiles countered before he could stop himself. He hadn't expected Lydia to defend him, though, in retrospect, he should have let her.

                "Non-practicing darach," Lydia said.

                "Yeah." Stiles slowly flexed his right hand. "Killing someone would actually help a lot." He noticed them staring. "Not that I will. You guys don't kill, and when in Rome, comply by all un-Roman non-lethality agreements. I also don't kill without reason regardless." Maybe not always a good reason, but a reason.

                "I can't contact Stiles anymore," Lydia blurted out.

                Stiles hadn't expected laughing at her guilt and reminding them of his sins to push Lydia to share, but he counted it a success. Scott was her alpha. He'd be able to help.

                "Do you know why?" Scott asked.

                Lydia's brows pinched together. "Even though the nogitsune is gone, the void isn't. I think seeing it is making it hard for me to reach him, but I don't know why. I tried asking Peter, but he said the void should have no effect on my powers."

                "Is it hurting Stiles?" Scott asked.

                "I don't think so, just scaring him." Lydia paused. "I'm not sure if it's tempting him. The way he showed it to me equated entering the void to suicide."

                She hadn't mentioned that before.

                Scott said, "Don't worry. Stiles won't give in."

                "Unless Peter finds out and pushes him to it," Lydia replied.

                "Is that what you're afraid of?" Stiles asked. "That Peter will make him like me?"

                "That's not what I said," Lydia insisted.

                Stiles shrugged. She didn't have to say it.

                "I can never tell if you're offended," Lydia said.

                Stiles shrugged again. "Does it matter?"

                Scott said, "Of course it matters," in the special voice people used when they decided something was wrong with Stiles.

                Stiles had thought he would avoid that in this world. It only happened when people thought he was weak, and he'd made sure they knew he was powerful. Stiles needed his magic back before this got worse.

                Lydia heard it too. She looked from Scott to Stiles, to the lunch Stiles hadn't eaten yet, and back to Stiles, running down his body instead of his face. She got the look on her face.

                Stiles missed Peter. He never gave the look. He never used the voice.

                Lydia looked down at her own cheeseburger, also untouched since they'd been talking. "We're letting the food get cold. We can talk after lunch."

                "Good point," Scott agreed almost before Lydia finished speaking.

                They watched Stiles as they ate, like they thought he wouldn't. Stiles rolled his eyes and ate his lunch. He didn't drink the tea though.

                Stiles' body was used to one meal a day. He wished they would talk as they ate because he couldn't eat as fast as they did. He would have to ask them to leave after lunch or pretend he needed a nap. It hadn't started yet, but he knew he would be sick with so much food. They could at least get him something light, like a salad or an empty sack.

                Once Stiles had his power back, everyone would leave him alone. Or maybe they'd be bothered that he wore plain shirts every day even though the other guy had different colors, patterns, and styles. Or that he didn't use the hair gel by the sink.

                "Do you always look so angrily at tea?" Lydia asked.

                Stiles had spaced out. "No." That wouldn't be enough. He wanted them to _stop_ worrying about him. "Peter was smart enough to keep it out of my sight." There, better.

                "The cup is opaque," Scott said defensively.

                "Ah, yes, much better," Stiles said. He jerked upright in his chair. "Maybe the void isn't the problem."

                "It's the only thing that's changed," Lydia said, frowning at Stiles' tea.

                "When did you see it? What happened before the two of you went to sleep that night?" Stiles asked.

                "We went to the magic shop that day. Stiles said he had a fight with Peter, and... oh my God." Lydia closed her eyes for a long moment before continuing. "He said he knew why we couldn't find Satomi's betas. I pushed him to talk about the void instead, and he never got to tell me."

                "We'll figure it out," Scott promised.

                Stiles frowned. "How did you know about the void?"

                "I don't understand why that matters," Lydia said.

                "I'm trying to prove my theory before burdening you with it, so humor me," Stiles said.

                Lydia pressed her lips together. Stiles sighed. They'd been civil to each other, but even that wasn't the same as trust. Lydia wouldn't tell him.

                "Fine," he spat. "The tea wasn't the problem; it was just what I was looking at. I think the void is the same for you, just a way to justify what you're doing."

                "And what is that?" Her voice had gone cold.

                "You're avoiding Stiles because you're afraid of losing him, either to another universe or to the same hunger for power you see in me."

                "I want to see him again more than anything." The cold of her voice went sharp with strain.

                "I know. That doesn't make you not scared. If he might give in to the void, then that means you're right. You want to remember him like he was, not like he's becoming."

                "Stiles isn't becoming anything," Scott said. "He was here with us a long time after the nogitsune. He can resist it."

                "It's stronger now," Lydia whispered. "Like the nightmare, the void's hold is stronger because he passed between worlds."

                "Stiles is strong too," Scott said.

                Lydia bit her lip.

                "He'll be okay," Scott promised.

                Lydia turned to Stiles. "You're wrong. I'm trying to see him. I miss him so much that I can't stand the thought of never seeing him again and being stuck with you."

                Stiles hadn't expected more from her. He'd replaced her boyfriend, not her enemy.

                "You didn't tell me how you knew it was there," he reminded her.

                Lydia shook her head. "The nogitsune told me about the hunger. After I got used to you, I knew there was a lot of hate in you that he didn't share, but there was something missing too, something that had been there when the nogitsune possessed him. In the dream, our minds are connected. I felt it there in a way I never did in person. Since you didn't have it, I knew what it was."

                "And what did you expect him to do when you confronted him?"

                "I don't know."

                "Yes, you do," Stiles said.

                "I hoped he would tell me he could handle it."

                "Hope isn't the same as expectation."

                Lydia hesitated. She licked her lips and looked away.

                "I think you knew," Stiles said. "I think you wanted him to freak out because it's easier for you this way."

                "This isn't easy."

                "No, but just think how much harder it would be never to see him if you admitted you still love him."

                "I do! I—"

                "That's enough," Scott said. "Stiles, you need to back off. Lydia, I'll stay with him. Can you get home okay?"

                Stiles watched Lydia leave, noting that Scott had cut her off, not Stiles.


	24. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles discusses binding with a guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Dark Stiles' turn for two in a row!

Noah gave Stiles a long hug before he left for the station. It was very fatherly. 10/10. Stiles patted his back and gave him a thumbs up, wondering how often he gave his real son an actual hug before work. Stiles pulled back his tattoos long enough to wave goodbye without confusing the neighbors but let them settle back into place once he shut the door.

                Stiles checked his reflection in the hall mirror with a wince. The binding had frayed further. The curve around the missing dot was gone. His hand barely trembled as he traced the missing line. He had a chance. Lydia wouldn't be ready, but his healing and the fraying were both tied to his magic. With the incense slowing the void energy, he may, just barely, beat it.

                He'd left a glass of juice on the kitchen table and went to finish it now that Noah wasn't worrying over him. Stiles physically felt his body converting his breakfast into magic, like worms crawling from his gut into his veins. Noah let him eat a small breakfast, but eating three meals a day added up. His body had more energy, and that went to magic. He supposed that contributed to his healing too, but it made him want to claw at his stomach until he dug out the worms.

                The back door crashed inward. Stiles scrambled toward the hall. He'd fixed the other guy's room so he could make an ash circle of it. He just had to make it there and hope ash stopped whoever had kicked in the door.

                "I'm here to talk," she called after him. Lair.

                She caught his shirt collar and tugged him back. The ground knocked the air from his lungs. He regained it slowly, wheezing.

                "Have you heard of a doorbell?" he asked, though his voice had gone hoarse.

                "You wouldn't have let me in. Do you know how long I've waited to catch you unguarded?"

                "A couple weeks," Stiles guessed. That was how long he'd been injured.

                She gave him a short round of applause. "You and I both know neither you nor the banshee will be ready to rewrite that seal."

                "Seals are general holds. Bindings hold living spirits."

                "And a square is a rectangle even if a rectangle isn't necessarily a square." Lair rolled her eyes. "No one cares. The point is, you're screwed."

                Stiles might be less screwed than she thought, but then again, he might be _more_ screwed than that too. It would be close. He stood, careful to move slowly so as not to spook the wereraven holding him hostage.

                He said, "I'm guessing you have a suggestion."

                "You can't rewrite it, so sever it and ditch the demon."

                Stiles laughed before he could stop himself.

                "It's power can't be worth more than your life." Lair put her hands on her hips.

                "Removing the eye will kill me and the demon. If someone else tries, the binding will kill all three of us." Stiles tapped the ink on his cheek. "I was very specific."

                "Se rewrite that part. A small portion would be less to learn than the whole thing."

                "There's no back door."

                Lair glanced toward the door she'd kicked in.

                "I mean in the binding. There's no loophole or escape clause or amendment point. It can't be changed." Stiles shrugged.

                "Are you insane?"

                "Nothing less would have held." Not that this had held. The void spirit inside him had attracted the spider, which had pulled him here. The nightmare had protected him during the trip, but it had grown stronger by passing through the void. Now it was breaking out _because_ he'd succeeded in trapping it. Stiles raised his hands in defeat. "Unless you've heard of a magic powerful enough to rip out a binding at the roots in a single go, I can't help you."

                Lair scowled.

                Something strong enough to hold a powerful demon couldn't be overcome by just any magic. Even lesser bindings were written with back doors because the chances of removal were so low otherwise.

                Stiles said, "The other day, you just wanted to scare me into giving you the eye, but Amara crashed the party, right?" The aura in the woods had been a shadow, not a web.

                Lair's eyes turned purple, which Stiles took as confirmation.

                "Follow me," Stiles said. He resumed walking toward his room, but Lair caught his arm.

                "You don't enter that room," she said. "Neither of us does."

                Was that caution, or had she realized how much supernatural firepower he'd gathered there?

                "Fine," Stiles agreed. "Then what about other ways to get home? If the demon could do it, then can't I, after I fix the binding?"

                Lair pushed him back toward the kitchen. "You can't fix it."

                "Pretend I can."

                Lair gritted her teeth. She took a breath and said, "It's power is too constrained within the binding. Even the most you can use would be too little. Ravens could cross on our own if it didn't take so much power."

                "What other ways do ravens cross?"

                "Some spiders leave their webs intact. We can cross them like a bridge, and most don't mind since we provide a free food source. Sometimes we even travel with spiders."

                "I'm guessing this spider collapsed her web." Stiles scratched at his jaw, thinking.

                Lair studied him. "You _might_ be able to cross on a web. She probably didn't want to give you the chance."

                "Has she crossed at all since bringing me here?"

                Lair shrugged. "She's crafty, so it's possible, but I don't think so."

                "I assume you'd have hitched a ride if she had." Stiles finished his juice and took the glass to the sink for an excuse to look outside. No one was on the street.

                Lair kept her position blocking the hallway.

                Stiles filled the glass with water and returned to the table, standing with it between him and Lair. Lydia had said the ravens could create illusions. What if that wasn't even Lair?

                "Any other ideas?" Stiles asked. Lair had caught him alone, but Scott would be over for lunch, most likely. That was hours away yet. Lydia might have a vision if Lair intended to kill him.

                "Find a friendlier spider, but they rarely visit worlds at the same time." Lair didn't take her eyes off him, so Stiles couldn't text for backup.

                Stiles sighed and took a slow drink. How long could he stall? He needed to get to his room. He said, "So you don't have a single viable plan to get home?"

                Lair scowled at that. She was too easy to aggravate. She could be faking it. She could also be new to the trickster life and naturally temperamental. Stiles supposed Lair was under a lot of stress, what with being trapped in the wrong universe without her friends.

                She asked, "You expect me to take your word about your eye?"

                "No." Stiles motioned to the binding visible on his face. "I expect you to read it, or can't you?"

                He should have left the last bit out. Making her angrier bought the opposite of time. It was just too much to resist. Even studying binding didn't guarantee someone could read his, and Lair had tried to shove her talk of seals in his face.

                Lair said, "I could test your honesty by taking the eye."

                Which meant she could neither hear nor smell lies. Some people could lie without giving it away to werewolves. Stiles wasn't one of them, but he doubted the possibility was why Lair doubted him.

                "That would kill us both," Stiles said.

                "So I should make someone else do it for me," Lair said.

                "Did you just give away your plan?" Stiles asked. He should have kept his mouth shut. Being the most powerful thing in Beacon Hills had gone to his head. Now that he was powerless, his mouth would get him killed.

                "Did I?" Lair asked, recovering some composure. She raised an eyebrow as if daring Stiles to find a deeper secret.

                "I can tell you're desperate," he said. "We're running out of time, and you don't have another way home. Maybe if we work together, we can think of something."

                Lair's nails grew into talons. "If I thought she'd take me home when she was through with you, I'd leave you for her. But I know she'll leave me behind, forgotten, not even worth taking along as scraps."

                She advanced. Stiles was going to die.

                He threw his water at her. She knocked it aside with one hand, eyes still on Stiles. The glass shattered against the wall. Lair stumbled. Her face smacked against the floor, and she rolled across the tile toward the sink.

                "Hurry." A teenage boy materialized against the wall. He motioned Stiles forward. "We have to get to your room." He could be an illusion, but Stiles wasn't sure why Lair would need to lure him anywhere when he was helpless. "I'm with Scott. Hurry," the boy said.

                Stiles' only other choice was to try to outrun Lair without his tattoo. He dashed for the room.

                The ash circle had already been closed. Lair crashed against it just behind Stiles and the boy who'd saved him.

                "I texted Scott. I'm sorry I couldn't help more. I'm not as strong as the others."

                Stiles grabbed the baseball bat leaned against the wall near the door. "Who the hell are you?"

                "I'm Corey. I'm part of the pack." He had brown hair and warm eyes. He had closed the circle, but he had also turned invisible. Stiles didn't see how someone could do both without being a powerful witch. He'd heard Corey mentioned before but never met him.

                Stiles wanted to check Corey's aura but hadn't been able to use the nightmare's eye since his injury.

                " _What_ the hell are you?" Stiles demanded.

                Corey looked at Lair.

                "Go on," she said. "We're all curious."

                Corey shook his head. "What matters is Scott should be here any minute."

                "Why were you here?" Stiles asked.

                "We're not going to leave you alone with your powers gone and two monsters after you." Corey waved one hand toward Lair.

                "Why didn't I know you were here?"

                Corey motioned to Lair again.

                "Was I bait?" Stiles asked.

                "I didn't think she'd attack," Corey explained.

                "She proved you wrong."

                Corey cocked his head. "Scott's pulling up."

                Lair ran.

                "Do we go after her?" Stiles peered through the doorway.

                "No. Stay safe," Corey ordered.

                "Assuming I'm safe with you," Stiles said. He heard neither Scott's bike nor the door. He turned back to Corey and whispered, "Did you just bluff?"

                Corey answered in a normal speaking voice. "Yeah. She's far enough away not to hear us now."

                "They're supposed to be able to create illusions. Maybe she's closer than you think." Stiles crossed to the window to look outside.

                "Maybe it looked that way to you—Other You—but what she's doing is more like hopping into a hidey hole. Mason calls it a pocket dimension."

                "Mason?" Stiles let 'hidey hole' slide for the moment. He'd heard the pack mention Mason before too, he thought.

                "My boyfriend. He's human. I'm a chimera; I can camouflage myself."

                Mason had a car, Stiles remembered. They hadn't needed it because Stiles made nice with Lydia.

                Stiles said, "Cool. Why didn't you find a minute to tell me about Lair while you were spying on her?"

                Corey raised his hands in front of himself. "In my defense, I didn't know what I was looking at, at first."

                Stiles crossed his arms, only slightly awkwardly because he refused to put down the baseball bat. "Mm-hm."

                Corey was young, probably the same age as Liam and Hayden, though older than Stiles when he started fighting monsters. This world had so many monsters. Stiles supposed his did too; they just hadn't joined the pack.

                "Scott's coming for real, right?" Stiles asked.

                "Definitely. I just wanted to get rid of her." Corey motioned vaguely toward the backyard. "I think it's easier to return to the same place, so she's probably right outside in the pocket she's been using."

                "And you're sure she can't hear us?"

                Corey nodded. "You don't bring people in here. She's positioned to listen to the kitchen and living room."

                "Does Scott know this?" Stiles asked. "Because there are so many ways you could have told me I was bait. Like a text. Or telling me in the bedroom. Or literally any time when she wasn't listening."

                "There's a chance Scott doesn't know about Lair," Corey admitted.

                Stiles threw up his hand. "I swear to God."

                Tires screeched outside.

                "He's here now," Corey said.

                "I hope he grounds you," Stiles said.

                "He's not my dad."

                Scott rushed to the doorway but stopped at the ash. "What the hell happened?"

                "Sooo grounded," Stiles said.

                Corey stepped forward toward Scott. "I noticed something weird in Stiles' backyard while I was invisible. It was a pocket dimension that Lair can open and hide inside. She attacked Stiles, so I stopped her. I think she should be hiding again."

                Scott looked from the smug smirk on Stiles' face to Corey's nervous lip-biting. He asked, "How long ago did you notice her?"

                Corey winced. "Two days."

                "Why didn't you tell me?"

                "You wouldn't have agreed to luring her out," Corey said.

                Stiles corrected him, "You mean using me as bait. But you didn't seem too upset about letting her run and hide again."

                "Because I tagged her with an emitter that should break her out." Corey's eyes widened with hope that he was out of trouble.

                "You told Mason?" Scott asked.

                "How did—"

                " _You_ don't know how to program an emitter," Scott said.

                Stiles asked, "How many secret members does your pack have?"

                "They're not secret. They've been dealing with something else." Scott pointed at Stiles. "You know about the missing betas." They'd been mentioned in his hearing, in any case.

                Stiles said, "So are we going to deal with Lair?"

                "Yes." Scott faced Corey. "It's your plan. What do we do now?"

                Stiles frowned. Apparently, Corey was not grounded at all. Scott had just put him in charge.

                Corey smiled, obviously surprised. "I've been watching her, and I think beta-form shifting and the pocket dimension are her only powers. So we just break her out, and she'll be easy to subdue."

                Scott asked, "So Stiles was wrong? She can't create illusions?"

                "He doesn't have a chimera to help him," Corey said.

                The front door slammed. Stiles assumed the others had heard it open. A moment later, Malia stood beside Scott.

                She asked, "Where is she?"

                Corey said, "I should make sure she's there." He crossed the ash line. He was only gone for a moment before returning to confirm she had hidden in the backyard.

                Scott turned to Stiles. "Stay here."

                "Seriously?"

                "Yes. Your magic isn't back yet."

                Stiles tried to think of how he could help anyway but came up with nothing. He dropped the bat. "I'll just take a nap in my baby crib."

                "You can stay awake," Malia assured him.

                "I was being sarcastic."

                "So?"

                Stiles dropped into the computer chair while the others went to take care of the wereraven. He sighed. Then he stood and began pacing. He couldn't hear a thing. They could be dying while he stood uselessly in the other guy's bedroom. It wasn't likely. Lair was strong, but not stronger than Scott and Malia combined.

                Malia stepped back up to the doorway. "We got her, and they're taking her to Eichen House. I'll wait with you."

                "We can go," Stiles said. "They may need you if Lair makes a fuss."

                "No," Scott said. "Stiles was a patient there once. Someone might recognize you, and then realize you're not him."

                " _I'm_ grounded," Stiles realized.

                "You're wounded," Scott corrected, "and Eichen is a bad place."

                "The showers were cold, and Stiles almost died there more than once," Malia agreed.

                "Those things seem equally bad," Stiles said as Scott left him behind.


	25. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Women keep telling Stiles things he doesn't want to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's "whom" when it's the object of the verb, but people don't rly talk like that.

Stiles stood in the woods at night, wearing clothes he let Peter buy him. Peter watched him from within a circle of mountain ash beside a fallen tree. He stepped forward so the toes of his shoes almost touched the ash and smirked.

                "Do you really think I'm this helpless?" Peter raised his hands, motioning to the circle.

                "As a kitten," Stiles said with a wink.

                "Let's see how helpless I am without the safety net," Peter suggested.

                "Trimming a kitties claws is for its own good." Stiles grinned.

                "You really like the cat thing," Peter noted.

                "You could sing Stray Cat Strut," Stiles said.

                "Tell you what: you open the circle, and I'll sing whatever you like."

                Stiles rolled his eyes and waved his hand. Ash blew aside.

                Peter rushed forward. He slammed Stiles against the trunk of a tree. His arm against Stiles' chest held him in place. He stared into Stiles' eyes, holding him with his gaze as strongly as his body. His eyes were a startlingly bright blue, almost inhuman, but not enough to be called glowing. They were paler in real life, colder. Peter smiled. He leaned his forehead against Stiles' and closed his eyes.

                "You can't discuss it with me because it's about me," Stiles realized.

                The ground pulled away under Stiles' feet. He fell through, but his bed broke his fall. This room was his, but not one or the other. His new bed was under him with his old crime board beside it. Two walls were blue, the other two white. Lydia stood just inside the doorway.

                She pointed toward the ceiling. "What was that?"

                Stiles looked up, but the hole he fell through was gone.

                "I think I was in another dream."

                "Is that why you're dressed like that?"

                Stiles looked down at himself, worried he'd changed clothes between dreams. He hadn't. He was wearing a pair of plaid pants he'd picked out to annoy Peter, though the shirt and blazer were ones Peter liked and insisted Stiles may need for semi-formal occasions.

                "Yeah," he said. He doubted they had time to discuss his clothes. "I have a lot to tell you."

                "I'm sorry it's been so long."

                Stiles shrugged because it didn't matter now. He told her about Satomi's betas. He summarized the encounter with the wereravens and warned her about Lair's power, uselessly, it seemed. Lydia looked horrified when he suggested forcing Lair's cooperation the same way he had Jacob's by telling her what had happened to Merc. Stiles hurried on to the process for creating a werespider.

                Lydia asked, "Can the displacement counteract the binding?"

                "I don't know." Stiles bit his knuckle while he thought it over. "You want Other Me to come to the brink of becoming a spider and just hope he doesn't go too far?"

                Lydia's shoulder's fell. "He was injured making the ink, and now we don't know if he'll be able to use his hand when it's time to rewrite the binding. He has me learning it, but I can't."

                "That's because his brain is made of mush," Stiles said. "I've been studying binding, and the one he wrote is half nonsense."

                "You've been studying binding?"

                "Haven't you?"

                "Barely. There isn't enough time." She shook her head. "You don't have any ideas?"

                "While Derek assures me I'm learning fast, that's not fast enough either. I'm... useless right now." With Jacob and Piper out of town, all that remained was the hunters. Stiles couldn't throw magic dust at them and make everything better any more than he could get home to save his doppelganger.

                "No more than I am. I couldn't even come see you. You found Satomi's packmates, and I couldn't tell her because I couldn't reach you. Their families are still looking for them." Lydia sat in the chair at the desk from Stiles' old room and was silent a long moment. "Corey was the one who caught Lair."

                "Corey?"

                Lydia shrugged. "Basically."

                "Good for Corey." Stiles wasn't sure what else to say. "Ask Other Me about Heather. I think I should tell her the truth, but I'm not sure how much Peter will flip out when I do. If there was a good reason he never told her, I'd rather know." Stiles wasn't sure how long he could fool Heather if even Peter believed he'd have to speak to her sometimes. Reading through Other Stiles' text conversations with her only made it clearer that she could spot every lie he crafted better than any werewolf's super-senses.

                Lydia nodded. Stiles doubted she knew how close Heather had been to Other Stiles, but the pack had learned to share the truth with their friends. Lydia had been one of the first friends they tried to hide it from.

                Then Lydia turned away. She breathed deeply, staring at the blank computer screen. "I thought I didn't want to talk about it, but I can't just... pretend it didn't happen. Stiles, you're..."

                "Not who you thought I was?" he suggested, voice chipper to hide any bitterness.

                "How do you act like it's not there?" she asked.

                Stiles shrugged.

                "That's not an answer."

                "I'm not like Scott. I've always wanted to do things I shouldn't, so I've had practice." Technically, he had practice making copies of keys and stealing Coach's phone, so maybe he hadn't resisted so much.

                "Does that mean you want to...?" She couldn't even say it.

                Stiles didn't want to be void again, but the part of himself that longed for the power was too deep to be a voice. It was a tug in his gut, a primal hunger.

                He asked, "Wouldn't you?"

                "It was terrifying. I never want to be near it again." Her face went pale at the thought.

                "Maybe it feels different to an outsider," Stiles said, though not because she was wrong. The void was the most terrifying thing he'd ever faced, but it was terrifying like standing at the edge of the high dive ready to leap in. He was scared, but some part of him knew it could be worth it. Knowing that part was wrong only helped a little.

                It was different here than when he was awake. He felt it more clearly. It was harder to hide from himself in his dreams.

                "I'm sorry," Lydia said.

                "Why?"

                "I don't know." There were tears in her eyes, waiting for her to lose control.

                "Yes, you do," Stiles said. "We're not okay, are we?"

                "You feel different," Lydia said. She didn't answer his question.

                "I'm not different. You just couldn't see me before."

                "It's stronger now, but that's not what I mean." She shook her head.

                "You mean different from before the nogitsune."

                "We're all different," Lydia said. "We've been through so much, but you... didn't just experience it. You became it."

                "Scott _became_ a werewolf. Mason _became_ the Beast. Are you accusing him of being French, or do you accept that he stopped being the thing when it left him?"

                "You stopped being the nogitsune. You never stopped being void."

                Stiles scowled. "Are you upset because I'm too terrible for you now or because I'm not agreeing with you?"

                "I'm trying to help," she said.

                "Help," he repeated flatly. "Help who?"

                "Even if you're handling it, it still effects you," she insisted.

                "Funny that you're so ready to talk about _me_ but ignore me when I ask about _us."_

                "You're trying to change the subject," Lydia accused. "Let me help you."

                "I don't need your help."

                "Then what about me?" Lydia asked. "I need to believe you'll come home to me, and that I'll still recognize you when you do."

                "I'm still me," Stiles insisted. "I haven't changed."

                "Stiles, maybe you're changed by being seen."

                Lydia faded from the dream.

                "I'm the same!" Stiles shouted at the empty room.

                He woke up.

                Stiles glared at his ceiling and tried not to think about quantum theory. His brain caught on Lydia refusing to answer him and implying she soon wouldn't recognize him, so he called that success and rolled out of bed. His t-shirt almost tripped him. He must have tossed it off during the night. Stiles threw it at the hamper and grabbed something to wear today, only to pause with his hand on a pair of khakis and think about his dream. He dug to the bottom of the drawer where he'd left the plaid pants. They were in the style Peter recommended, so Stiles had never intended to actually wear them. He tossed them on the bed with a black t-shirt and boxers.

                Scratching at his scalp, Stiles headed to the bathroom to shower. He yawned.

                "What's wrong with your tattoo?"

                Stiles turned to find Cora behind him in the hall wearing kitten pajamas. She motioned toward him, probably meaning his back. Stiles twisted but couldn't see far enough. He walked the rest of the way to the bathroom and checked his back in the mirror.

                Though he rarely cared to look at it, Stiles had seen the tattoo on his back before. It had been a huge black mass stretching over the entirety of his back, tendrils creeping to his shoulders and hips. Now it covered barely more than his shoulder blades, overlaid black lines implying constant, rapid motion. Nearer the bottom, lines fell downward, like it was dripping or had been ripped away from its lower half.

                "It's smaller," Stiles said.

                "I've never seen that happen before," Cora said. She turned away from him and shouted Peter's name.

                Peter had Stiles by the shoulder almost before Stiles noticed he'd reached them. Peter traced one hand over the tattoo on Stiles' back and asked, "How did we not notice?"

                "I'm usually cold at night," Stiles said. When they stared at him blankly, he explained, "I keep my shirt on. No one sees my back."

                "Why didn't you notice?" Peter asked.

                "It's behind me."

                Peter leveled a flat look at Stiles then turned his entire head to look into the mirror Stiles had just checked his back in.

                "I hate tattoos, Peter. I didn't want to look at it. Should I feel it doing whatever it's doing or not doing now since it's obviously different from what it was doing before?"

                Peter stared at him and blinked. His gaze dropped to Stiles' torso, and he poked a bruise on Stiles' ribs.

                Stiles flinched. "What the hell, Peter? That hurts."

                "Which means you should have noticed it," Peter said.

                Stiles had definitely noticed when Peter kicked him in the ribs. "And?"

                Peter looked at him like he was an idiot.

                Cora said, "The tattoo should heal bruises."

                Peter scowled. "I thought you were healing after we sparred. Why didn't you tell me I was hurting you?"

                "I didn't think of it," Stiles said. "I'm not used to magical healing."

                "Good," Cora said. "I don't think you'll have it long."

                Peter grabbed Stiles' wrist. The spiral pack symbol looked the same as ever.

                "We'll figure this out," Peter promised. "We'll fix it."

                The doorbell rang.

                Cora said, "I got it," and left.

                Stiles asked Peter, "It can't hurt me, can it?"

                "It's healing magic. It won't kill you."

                "I said hurt," Stiles reminded him.

                Peter shrugged.

                "Did you just shrug at my pain?"

                "Is that something I would do?" Peter asked in a coy voice.

                "Yes."

                "Then I guess I did."

                Cora returned and crossed her arms at Stiles. He knew because people crossed their arms at him a lot. He wasn't even sure what he'd done wrong. She said, "Get dressed. Heather is here."

                "What?" Stiles stared blankly, waiting for that to register. Heather had come to his house.

                Cora looked at Peter, "Does he know who Heather is?"

                "I know who she is," Stiles said, pushing past Cora.

                Pretending to be Other Him was easier in text than in person when he'd have to look her in the eye and remember how she had died. He threw on the clothes he'd picked out with a baseball cap to cover that he hadn't fixed his hair. He almost forgot the wristband.

                In the front room, Stiles found Cora and Heather sitting in awkward silence, each playing on her own phone.

                "Hey," he said to Heather. "You wanna take a walk?"

                Cora stood. "Stiles are you sure that's—"

                "Fine," Stiles interrupted. "We'll be fine."

                Heather threw her arms around Stiles. "I'd love a walk."

                She pulled back and offered her arm to escort Stiles from the house. She waited until they were almost out of the clearing around the house to say, "You look great, Mischief. I guess getting away helped after all."

                "Sometimes it's nice to be alone," Stiles said. Maybe he should have pretended to be sick and hidden in his room. Heather could tell by looking that he wasn't the right Stiles. She just didn't know what she was seeing. He couldn't tell her anything until he heard back from Lydia and spoke to Peter.

                "And the Hales?"

                "Sometimes they're nice too. They treat me like family."

                Heather asked, "Do you remember when we promised never to lie to each other?"

                They'd been at the playground sharing a bag of gummy worms by the slide. It happened in both worlds, but they mentioned it more in this one. _Heather_ mentioned it. Stiles had started lying.

                Stiles said, "Heather, whatever you came here to ask, just do it."

                "What does Peter Hale want from you?"

                "Excuse me?"

                "He gave you a bedroom in his house and whatever money you ask for. He takes you out to breakfast and buys you way more clothes than a normal person gets all at one time. Mrs. McClure saw you together at that shady motel on the edge of town. A lot of people have seen you together in out-of-the-way places."

                Stiles squinted. "Have you been spying on me?"

                "People know we dated, and they come to me because they're worried about you. Is Peter forcing you to do something you don't want to?" she asked.

                "No. Peter's helping me."

                 "He's always seemed shady. You hated him once, but now you're suddenly like family? Is he manipulating you? Blackmailing you? Paying you?"

                "None of the above." Manipulating was probably true to an extent, but not in the way she meant. Stiles stopped Heather with a hand on her shoulder. "What is it you think I'm doing with him?"

                "I don't know. Dealing drugs, or something. Don't laugh at me."

                Stiles tried to tell her he would never, but he couldn't get a word out because he was laughing too hard.

                "Seriously?" She stopped with her hand on her hip.

                "Do I honestly look like a drug dealer?" Stiles asked.

                "It was just an example. Why don't you tell me what you were really doing?"

                Suddenly sobered, Stiles said, "We were looking for someone, a runaway. We found her in the morgue."

                "Oh my God, I'm sorry." Heather hugged Stiles to comfort him. She didn't know how many bodies he'd seen, including hers.

                "I barely knew her," Stiles said. "Did you really come all the way here to rescue me from Peter?"

                "I thought I did, but maybe you don't need my help. I can tell you're still hurting, but I think you're dealing with it better than you were."

                Stiles wondered what she would be saying now if she were confronting the right Stiles. He said, "Some days are easier than others."

                "You can text me, you know, no matter what kind of day you're having."

                "I know." He needed an excuse. "I don't really text anyone." That wasn't an excuse. At least it was true.

                "Are you going to BHU this semester?" she asked.

                "That's a little too soon," Stiles said. Even if he applied now, he would have to wait for the spring semester. Besides, he wanted to go to George Washington, not some local college in California.

                Heather nodded. "I get it. I just miss seeing you."

                Stiles hugged her so she couldn't see his face as he said, "I miss you too," because he was saying it to a dead girl. "I'll try to do better."

                She pushed him back. "Don't. You've made promises before. Don't."

                Stiles reminded himself he'd hurt this girl, driving her away almost exactly the way he had Malia on his own world. He needed to act like it.

                "I'll make no attempt at anything whatsoever," Stiles corrected. He assumed any version of himself was more comfortable with jokes than apologies.

                "You're a little shit," she said, but she was smiling. Stiles must have gotten it right.

                "I'm bigger than you." Stiles set a hand at the top of his head and moved it forward into the air above hers.

                Heather said, "There was one other thing I worried Peter could be doing. It's kind of crazy, but the longer I see how good those pants look on you, the more possible it seems."

                "I don't understand what the deal with my pants is."

                "When I texted you the other day, did I interrupt a date?"

                "No." Stiles wasn't sure what his pants had to do with not dating Peter. "I picked these because he hates plaid."

                "Are you sure he didn't help you pick them because your ass looks fantastic?"

                "It does?" Peter had told Stiles to get these pants in blue before Stiles grabbed the plaid ones.

                Heather sighed. "You know he's old enough to be your father, right?"

                "Yes, I'm friends with his daughter, who is my age."

                "You don't find it weird that he always hated me?" Heather asked.

                "That was for different reasons." Pack secrecy reasons. "Besides, I've seen the women Peter hits on, and I don't have much in common with them." He'd also seen Malia's mother, who was hot in a murderous kind of way, he supposed.

                He knew Peter had something he couldn't share, something _about_ Stiles. Stiles already knew Peter liked him, but that wasn't as strong as what Heather was suggesting. He tried to think of literally any other reason Peter would rather leave the house than talk to Stiles. Nothing came to mind. If Peter didn't care about Stiles, lying wouldn't bother him.

                "Do you know what you haven't done?" Heather asked.

                "Convinced you, apparently."

                "You haven't told me _you're_ not interested."

                "He's a control freak who lives in the middle of nowhere and has crinkles around his eyes." He might have just revealed how much time he spent looking at Peter's eyes. Sometimes they glowed in the dark, so he couldn't be blamed for that.

                Heather's eyes narrowed. "That's not a no."

                "I'm not in love with Peter."

                He couldn't say he wasn't attracted to Peter because the Hales were like a family of supermodels. He was still Peter though. His smirk was biting, and his smile smarmy. He barked orders and told lies and completely disregarded common decency in favor of getting what he wanted.

                But Peter hadn't demanded more than Stiles could give. He stopped lying and shared personal secrets with Stiles, probably just to make Stiles feel better. He ran away because he couldn't bring himself to lie to Stiles. He stayed by Stiles' side against the hunters and raced to join him against the ravens. He liked Stiles better than his doppelganger. He held Stiles after his nightmare.

                "Crap," Heather said, staring at his face. "You really didn't know, and now it's my fault you do."

                "I would have gotten here eventually anyway," Stiles said.

                "Care to tell me why you stopped hating him?"

                "I started to feel like I could trust him," Stiles admitted. He thought the pack bond had made it easier, but he always knew when that was working. This was different. Stiles wasn't supposed to be the trusting one, and Peter wasn't supposed to be trustworthy.

                Heather gave him a pitying look. "You know he wants something from you."

                "I don't mind so much if it's something I can give." Stiles shrugged, but he looked downward.

                "All that means is that he's playing you really, really well."

                "Yeah." Stiles scratched at his neck.

                Stiles already knew what Peter wanted from him. He wanted Stiles to stay here and get stronger. One of those wouldn't be a choice. The other, Peter already knew he wouldn't get, at least not the way Peter thought he wanted it.

                "Stiles," Heather said, though she rarely used that name in her texts. "You're not making me less worried about you."

                "Sorry. I'm fine."

                "You've admitted you're being manipulated into a relationship by an older man."

                "No." Stiles held up a finger. "He is actively avoiding any relationship talk with me."

                "Or making you think he is."

                Stiles bit at his nail as he considered that. "No," he decided. "I've seen Peter play people. This is different. I think it worries him."

                There was the bond to consider too. Peter could use it to affect Stiles' emotions, but he had stopped. Instead, he used it to share his own, to show Stiles that the most important parts of what he said were true. Heather couldn't understand.

                "Have you been encouraging him?" Heather crossed her arms.

                "No."

                "Mischief."

                "We're friends. I've been friendly."

                "There is a difference, and you know it. Have you been encouraging him?"

                "Not intentionally," Stiles admitted. "Not consciously."

                But he'd asked Peter to take him out to eat. He insisted on spending time with Peter instead of the rest of the pack. When he needed to watch Peter for his reactions, he spent as much of that time as possible staring into his eyes. He wore the pants from his dream with Peter, the only thing he owned that he knew Peter would simultaneously like and hate.

                Peter hadn't been the only one with something he'd rather not discuss, just the only one who admitted it to himself.

                Someone could be listening. Stiles hadn't thought of it, but Cora or Peter could have followed without Stiles noticing. They could be listening to every word, listening to his heart beat faster now that he realized he'd been careless. He tried not to look for them in the woods, but his eyes darted toward the trees.

                "If you need to get out of there, I'll help you," Heather promised. "You don't have to stay."

                "I'm fine," Stiles insisted. "He'll let me choose."

                He should find a way to make a joke instead, change the topic or negate the severity of the conversation. What if Peter was listening?

                Heather set a hand on his arm, as if sensing his unease. "How do you know?"

                "He always lets me choose."

                "What are you going to choose?" Heather asked.

                Stiles opened his mouth but shut it. He opened it again to say, "My choice will be whatever I choose it to be if and when I'm presented with a choice that requires I be the one to choose between whatever choices are there for me to choose from."

                "Really?"

                "What?"

                "I'm trying to have an honest conversation, not... that again."

                At least he was doing a great job at impersonating himself. "Heather, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm still..." He couldn't mention his dad; it wouldn't sound authentic since his father was still alive. He couldn't tell her about werewolves, or that werewolves, including Peter, might be listening to them talk about Peter.

                "I can't do this again," Heather said. "Just be honest with me for once."

                "What did I do now?" At least the other one had been sort of on purpose.

                "You think I don't remember how you look when you're making up a lie to tell me? I'll find my way back." Heather turned away. "Text me when he gets tired of you. Maybe then you'll tell me what has really been going on with you."

                _I'm not him_ , Stiles couldn't say.

                When Heather was gone, Cora stepped into view with a frown. "How much was lies?"

                Too much for Heather. "You can hear lies, Cora."

                He had hoped no one would be there, but maybe Cora was better than Peter. In his first week there, Stiles agreed to a buddy system. He should have known they wouldn't let him wander off with Heather alone.

                "She wasn't a runaway, but you said she was without a tell. No hike in your pulse, no intake of breath, nothing." Cora's voice was accusing.

                "Oh." He'd kept it hidden so long.

                "How much else has been a lie?"

                Stiles tried to think through everything he'd said to Heather. He thought most of the affirmatives had been vague. He could say he was playing along to keep her from finding him out. His arguments against had been clearer, more direct. Even if the Hales argued that he'd besmirched Peter's name, Stiles could claim to have defended him until Heather left him no choice.

                Or Stiles could stop lying.

                "Stiles," Cora snapped. "Why didn't you tell us you can lie like that?"

                "You can lie to me," Stiles said. "It's only fair."

                "What's fair?" Peter asked. When they both looked surprised to see him, he explained, "Heather left, but you two didn't return."

                Cora grabbed Stiles' arm like she meant to shove him at Peter. "He can lie to us. I heard him lie to Heather and only knew it because I knew the truth. I don't know how much of what he said to her was lies."

                "It doesn't matter," Stiles said. "I had to get rid of her without blowing my cover, and I did."

                Peter held out his hand. Stiles took it.

                Peter said, "Try to imagine me knowing absolutely that you are honest, and speak. I'll be able to feel it just like you did."

                Stiles did. "Just because I haven't told you everything about myself and every thought in my head doesn't mean I'm lying. I've certainly lied less than you." Peter had lied outright to Stiles more than once. He had no right to be angry about this.

                "You're just... holding back," Peter said.

                "So are you."

                Peter let go of his hand. "Nothing's changed, Cora."

                Stiles thought maybe something had.


	26. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tests his healed hand as the binding frays further.

Stiles bit down on the marker cap between his teeth, concentrating. His hand was steady as he drew the marker across his forehead. The tattoo gun would require more strength, but at least he'd made progress. Scars still stood out against his skin, but he had better range of movement along his whole arm and his neck. While he couldn't open his demon eye, the human-camouflage eye seemed to whirl in the same pattern as the demon's fire. The binding would fail soon. 

                "Ha!" Stiles shouted when he finished. The marker cap fell into the sink. He retrieved it and capped Lydia's washable marker. Then he grabbed his phone for a selfie and sent it to Lydia. He took a few more angles as reference and sent those too, with a note to study hard.

                She texted back, **Why? You can do it now.**

                **Any sane scribe would have a second for a demon of this power and a binding of this difficulty.**

                 He pulled his tattoo forward. Every line of marker was in perfect position, but the tattoo couldn't tell him that anymore. Half the binding had frayed the moment he healed his hand. The magic incense could only do so much.

                Lydia responded, **You didn't have a second the first time.**

                Stiles knew that. He hadn't had a chance to plan ahead the first time. **Then it's a good thing I've got a second chance to have a second ;).**

                **I may not be here anymore.**

                Stiles didn't text back. He washed his face. The others were going to college. He was supposed to go too, all the way to Washington DC. Noah had said he could stay home instead. They'd figure out how to have the other guy readmitted when he got back.

                Lydia texted again, **Do you know how long you have?**

                Stiles studied his face with a sneer. Half a binding to hold a nightmare. **Days. I have days to live.** And he was spending it drawing on his face.

                **I'm coming over.**

                In retrospect, Stiles could have left off the last bit. He dried his face and chest and pulled his sweater back on. It had a picture of a fox with its mouth open and gibberish spewing out. It had been buried at the back of the closet like the other guy never intended to look at it again.

                Lydia wouldn't be ready even if she was still in town. She was good and getting better, but no one with half a brain would let her near such a complicated binding.

                Stiles could feel the binding fraying, like threads being tugged one by one from his skin. He could draw the binding on his face and have Lydia trace it with the tattoo gun if he couldn't hold it steady. His hand would probably be healed enough to do it himself. A second was only backup.

                This demon was a remnant. Stiles had already killed it and plucked out its eye for his own use. He'd bested it's latent power with the most powerful binding in two universes, and he would do it again. And again. And again. As many times as it took. He was stronger than a nightmare.

                Lydia called his name from the living room. "You should keep the door locked," she said when she saw him.

                Stiles shrugged. The house was a closed ash circle, so it was locked against the threats that mattered.

                "I spoke to Other You," Lydia said.

                "That's great."

                Her connection to Stiles was intact.

                Lydia took a seat and pulled Stiles to sit beside her. "He wanted me to ask you why you never told Heather the truth. He wants to tell her."

                "Did she figure him out?" Stiles winced. Heather had always known when he was lying to her.

                "He didn't say. Heather died here, so it's possible he just misses her."

                "Heather's dead?" Stiles' throat tightened. He knew his Heather was alive, but she was a universe away.

                "I'm sorry." Lydia took his hand to comfort him.

                Stiles shook his head and cleared his throat. "Isn't she safer kept away from the supernatural?" That was part of why he'd let her go rather than fight Peter to have her stay.

                Lydia squeezed his hand. "We've found that keeping secrets means the people already in danger can't protect themselves. If she knew, you could send messages to her too."

                Stiles wondered if that was why their pack had grown so much.

                He said, "If he tells her, make him swear to explain why I did it. I love her so much. Lying to her hurt almost as much as knowing it was the reason I lost her."

                "He will. I promise."

                "Thank you, Lydia. You're the best friend I've ever had from a mortal enemy's doppelganger." The standard was low enough he expected Lydia wouldn't argue.

                "At least I'm always an important part of your life," she said with the hint of a smile at her lips.

                Stiles laughed despite himself. "That's terrible, not funny."

                "Stiles also said that you'll be able to feed on displacement like Amara does. I think you can use it."

                "My power is returning," Stiles said. He should be able to fight off Amara himself, assuming he replaced the binding. He still burned the incense from the shopkeeper witch regularly to keep the demon's power at bay and buy him time.

                Lydia said, "It's just a backup plan, like having me there as your second. If you exhaust your own displacement, you can feed on someone else's. Don't. Once you do, the spider can bite you to complete the transition to werespider."

                "Complete?"

                "She bit you once, but Peter made you forget. That's why you're here."

                "How, exactly, is a werespider made?"

                "She has to bite someone who will survive the trip between universes, which means someone connected to the void. Her venom in your system makes you displace yourself. Then you have to feed on displacement energy, and she can bite you again."

                Stiles frowned. "I tried to attack Lydia just before I got here." Lightning had struck the other guy here. He must have been displacing them already.

                "Stiles?"

                "Amara called the other guy unsuitable, but we've both had contact with void spirits."

                "The nogitsune is gone," Lydia said even though that explained all of nothing.

                "Why create another spider at all?" Stiles asked.

                "They have to sometime or werespiders would go extinct. We know she's very old. Maybe it's near the end of her life, and her instincts to preserve the species kicked in," Lydia suggested.

                "Her superbiological clock is ticking?" Stiles snorted.

                "I don't know, Stiles." Lydia frowned.

                Stiles mused, "If I did it, I'd be able to go home and to carry the other guy back." It was just a different power, technically. He'd need to train someone else to handle mountain ash and spells around the house, unless spiders could cast magic too. The spells would fail soon if he didn't get home to renew them.

                "I don't think she'd just let you go," Lydia said. "And you would have to displace people to feed, which means leaving home to find someone who would survive it and then condemn them to the fate you turned to avoid."

                Stiles winced. He doubted people touched by the void were common, and full displacement was fatal to anyone else. He could feed off lesser displacement at first, like Deaton had told them. Stiles didn't know how long that would be enough.

                He would be powerful though. The spider had taken on Peter's pack and Argent's hunters together and made it out alive, missing only the snack she'd taken. She'd bitten Stiles in that fight, he remembered. He tried to block her from taking Isaac even though he hated Isaac. She had laughed like it was cute. The venom had burned through him until Peter got him to a hospital for a full blood transfusion.

                Stiles shook his head. With power like that, he could finally kill Lydia. He could just carry her to a new universe and watch her shrivel and die.

                The Lydia in front of him frowned like she could sense the train of his thoughts. "Stiles, you would have to kill people just to survive."

                "Every world has villains. I could eat them." Stiles said.

                "You have no right to them." Lydia's voice was deep in her anger. "Even villains can be redeemed. Deucalion became our ally. Peter is playing miniature golf with his daughter today. And you've become friends with Lydia Martin." She didn't specify which of them she saw as the villain, but she also didn't qualify the word 'friends.'

                "Miniature golf?"

                "I'm sure they're both hating it. My point is he wouldn't have a chance to try if someone had taken him to another universe as dinner."

                "As opposed to this universe where your pack killed him."

                "What about you, Stiles? In your universe, you _murdered my mother_ in cold blood."

                "So I should be fine eating people," Stiles spat.

                " _So_ I don't think you'd do it again now. You're not evil. You just needed to learn a better way."

                "What you think is that Peter is the source of everything bad about me," Stiles accused.

                They'd spent a lot of time together practicing the binding. Stiles guessed that blaming Peter was the only way Lydia could forgive Stiles, and her options were to forgive him or spend hours at a time with someone she despised. He would rather she could forgive outright him instead of shifting the blame, but he knew he didn't deserve it.

                Lydia said, "If that were true, I'd think everything about the other Stiles is perfect."

                "Don't you?"

                "No."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "Please, Lydia, You're in love with the guy. You can't have that many problems with him."

                "I don—" She paused, swallowed. "Just because I love him doesn't mean I have to be blind to every fault. He's still human."

                "You see his faults so clearly you had to force him to scare you away," Stiles reminded her. "You couldn't even get over him on your own."

                "I told you that's not what happened."

                "How did you get to see him again?" Stiles asked. "You couldn't figure out what was wrong, so how did you fix it?"

                Lydia looked away.

                "Unless you figured out what was wrong," Stiles added.

                "No," she whispered. "I found something else." Lydia faced the window, though the blinds were closed to hide Stiles' tattoos as he moved around the house. "Stiles is different. I always knew, but I didn't realize how. My first love discovered Scott was a werewolf and hounded him until Derek gave him the bite too. Stiles knew all along and never wanted it. I've dated actual villains while they were fighting the pack, but Stiles was _good._ He wanted to save people. I guess I thought I'd finally found someone safe."

                "And then you looked into his heart and saw a force so far beyond good and evil that it rips both apart with no regard for life?"

                "Something like that," Lydia said.

                "I think you have a type."

                Lydia gave him a withering look, but at least she looked at him.

                "Why did you need to see it?" Stiles asked.

                "I can't love him and lie to myself about who he is, but he won't listen to me when I try to talk to him about it. He insists he hasn't changed."

                "You don't love him any less," Stiles realized. Either he'd been wrong after all, or her plan had failed.

                "We all have terrifying powers. The void isn't enough to scare me away." She paused to lick her lips. "But he won't be able to handle it if he won't admit what it does to him."

                "I think all versions of me are stubborn," Stiles said. "You may have to choose between helping him and keeping him."

                She nodded. "I already did."

                "I'm sorry."

                "That's sweet, but don't be."

                "What if he doesn't come around?" Stiles asked. "You can't just believe he'll—"

                "I know," Lydia interrupted. "I made my choice, but I didn't decide what to do about it. I don't even know yet if I want him back if he's so willfully blind that he would rather lose me than listen to me."

                "Did you already break up?" Stiles asked. The way she worded that make it sound like they had.

                "We had a fight. I don't know what we did, " she said.

                A girl screamed from outside. "HELP! Help me, please!"

                It came from the direction of the door. Stiles shoved the blinds aside to look out at the porch. Amara held a girl, maybe fifteen years old and sobbing with fear. Most of Amara's body looked human, but one arm ended in the sharp point of one of her spider's legs. The point pressed against her captive's throat.

                Stiles opened the door but didn't step outside or step fully into the doorway. He stood to the side, peering out at an angle.

                "Let her go," he demanded.

                "Break the ash line," Amara countered.

                "Do I look stupid to you?" Stiles asked. He'd acted too rashly. They had a better chance if she thought the hostage didn't help. Stiles was a little bit evil, so he should be able to sell it.

                "Please," the girl begged. "Please help me."

                Amara pierced her skin, just enough for a trail of blood to trickle down her neck.

                "I'll kill her if you don't," Amara insisted.

                Stiles shrugged. "And then you won't have a shield to keep Lydia from screaming at you." One of his arms was hidden from her view. He reached into his back pocket for mistletoe he kept on him for exactly this reason.

                "You would let her die?"

                "Do I look concerned?" Stiles knew he didn't. He may not be able to control his heartbeat, but he had an easier time with his face.

                Amara looked past his shoulder to Lydia. Stiles threw the mistletoe in Amara's face. She coughed and stumbled. She dropped the girl. Stiles grabbed the girl and tugged her over the ash line.

                Lydia stepped up to the doorway and screamed. Amara flew back. The porch's posts cracked.

                Something pricked Stiles' neck. The girl scrambled from his side to push a needle into Lydia's neck. Lydia stumbled. The girl knelt and brushed the mountain ash aside with her hand.

                "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "She has my brother too. I'm sorry."

                Stiles blacked out as Amara stepped into the house.


	27. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tries to avoid Cora and Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this chapter was short even before Mass Effect: Andromeda came out.

Derek entered the basement with a glass of chocolate milk and an eyebrow raised in judgment. Once he knew Stiles saw him, he pursed his lips and looked upstairs.

                "Don't you dare," Stiles ordered.

                "It's just past your bedtime."

                "I'm an adult. I don't have a bedtime."

                Derek smirked. "You mean if you go upstairs before Peter and Cora go to bed, you may have to speak to one of them."

                Stiles scowled. He'd barely said a word to either of them since they found out he could lie. Cora left every room Stiles entered. Stiles and Peter pretended not to avoid each other but barely spoke when they shared a room. Only Derek acted like nothing had happened, except that Stiles knew for a fact he was taunting all three of them mercilessly. At least Scott and Malia had been too busy preparing for college to figure out why everyone was so upset.

                Stiles changed the topic to match the work he'd been doing since exiling himself to the basement. "Why didn't you tell me about other kinds of seals and externally-charged sigils?"

                "Binding isn't hard enough for you?" Derek sat in the armchair and put his feet up instead of heading to his desk.

                "You need a living spirit to bind, which I don't have. Seals and sigils, I might actually be able to use to fortify the house, once I figure out how to use them." Stiles motioned to the magic walls. Soon this would just be a basement open to a network of caves instead of a secret basement secretly open to a network of caves. It wouldn't even have external doors, just gaping holes.

                "He used channeled magic, which you can't," Derek pointed out. "Speaking of magic, show me your back."

                Stiles turned around and tugged his t-shirt up. He checked it every day now. He didn't need Derek keeping tabs on him too.

                "It looks the same as yesterday," Derek said.

                It was smaller than it had been when they first noticed the shrinking. It still covered his left shoulder blade, but only reached half of his right. Stiles tugged his shirt down and sat while Derek sipped at his chocolate milk.

                Derek asked, "Why doesn't magic work on you?"

                "Obviously, it does. The thing healed me before it started shrinking. Maybe it thinks its work is done."

                Derek shook his head. "Magic doesn't think. Have you ever had a spell go wrong before, or interfered with someone else's magic?"

                "I told you about the time I sacrificed myself to ruin the darach's sacrifice." Stiles frowned, trying to remember. "She also tried to collapse the root cellar with an earthquake, but I stabilized it with a baseball bat."

                "A baseball bat?"

                "A metal one," Stiles clarified. He'd shattered his wooden bat on the twins. Melissa's wooden bat, technically.

                Derek nodded. "How many times has the banshee predicted your death?"

                "Lydia added my name to the list of Brunski's victims, but Parrish arrived and saved us. She also told me I was going to die when we rescued her from Eichen, but I think that was because her voice was going to kill us. We saved her, so we saved us." He thought. "She had... 'visions' might be the best word... when I was possessed and when the Wild Hunt took me."

                "How did you survive the nogitsune?"

                "Has Peter been sharing things about me?" Stiles hadn't mentioned what possessed him.

                "He doesn't realize I can piece things together based on what he asks me to look up."

                Stiles scrunched up his face. "Scott and Lydia entered my mind to free me from the nogitsune's control. I was separated from it, so there were two of me, linked so that as long as he kept my form, I was dying."

                Derek sipped his milk while considering. "So nothing magical has ever actually stopped you, but you never thought that meant anything?"

                "Don't give me that smug look. I still don't know what it means."

                The smug little smirk only grew on Derek's face. "Magic is controlled by force of will, and your will is strong. The tattoo is fading because you don't want it. The pack bond isn't because you accepted it."

                "Are you screwing with me?"

                Derek shook his head.

                "Is it really that simple?" The tattoo's shrinking had slowed as Stiles began worrying about it, or at least he thought it had. He wasn't sure how long ago it started.

                "Simple answers are most likely to be true, Stiles. Peter was in his study when I came down. You should bring him the good news and think about how helpful healing magic can be."

                "Why don't you tell him?"

                "Because I'm comfortable here and sick of you avoiding him. Peter is unbearable when he's in a bad mood." Derek raised his glass as if offering a toast. "Good luck."

                Stiles stomped his way to the door/wall but walked normally through the house to Peter's study. The door stood open, but Stiles knocked on it anyway.

                "I'm busy, Stiles." Peter sat with his laptop, typing so intently he didn't look up to speak.

                "Sorry, just wanted to say Derek thinks he knows what's wrong with my tattoo." He dropped himself into a chair without waiting for permission, so he figured Peter wouldn't need to hear his heartbeat to know Stiles wasn't sorry after all.

                Peter made a show of dealing with his files and shutting the laptop down as slowly as possible. Stiles beat a rhythm on the arm of his chair while he waited. It wasn't very rhythmic, so he technically tapped randomly on the arm of his chair.

                "Well?" Peter asked, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. Stiles wondered if he'd put away his laptop specifically so he could pose.

                "I'm willing it away the same way I'm willing the void not to overtake me because I don't want powers." Stiles continued tapping randomly on the chair arm while Peter considered what he'd said.

                "Is that how Derek worded it?" Peter asked.

                "Of course not. I haven't told him about the void, unless he or Cora is listening right now," Stiles realized too late. He should be used to casual eavesdropping by now.

                "He's downstairs, and she's asleep," Peter said.

                "How responsible of her," Stiles noted.

                "I figured _that_ out." Peter pointed at Stiles, or at his incorporeal jokes. "It's not that you don't care about serious situations. Humor and deflection help you feel it's manageable."

                Stiles had come here to discuss his tattoo, not to have _another_ person telling him who he was now.

                "Are we psychoanalyzing?" Stiles asked. "The reason you care why I'm hilarious is that you feel a constant need to be in control, and you're threatened by irreverence."

                Peter set his palms flat on his desk. "Do not challenge me, Stiles. I am the alpha."

                "What's a challenge?" Stiles asked, knowing full well what was a challenge. "I thought we were playing a game."

                "Not a game you'd win."

                "Sure I would," Stiles said but bit his tongue and the inside of his cheek.

                "Don't stop there, Stiles. What makes you so confident?"

                This was why Stiles had been avoiding Peter. He'd disguised it, he thought, as a consequence of lying to them. It wasn't too late to back out. Stiles could go hide in his room with the ash circle closed.

                He didn't want to.

                Maybe it was because Stiles had never been able to leave well enough alone. Maybe it was because he had changed exactly as much as Lydia thought. Either way, Stiles was tired of hiding and pretending he didn't know anything. He missed talking to Peter. Maybe this would make it worse, or maybe freeing himself from the weight of this secret would help.

                Stiles stood and walked around Peter's desk. Peter turned his chair to face Stiles, as if daring him to go on. Stiles couldn't resist resting his hands on the chair's armrests and leaning down to stare Peter in the eye.

                "I know what you can't discuss with me," Stiles said. Now it was too late to take back.

                "I doubt it." Peter spoke with confidence.

                Stiles considered taunting Peter further to confirm his suspicions. If Peter was so sure he'd kept his secrets safe, maybe Stiles had misinterpreted something. No, Peter let Derek figure out that Stiles was possessed by a nogitsune because Peter never considered the possibility of anyone else being as smart as he was.

                Stiles was surprised to find it didn't matter. He simply didn't want to wait. There wasn't time to examine whether the desire was genuine or vindictive. Their faces were inches apart as they stared each other down. Anger darkened Peter's blue eyes, but they did not glow. Stiles had wolfsbane in his pocket. He would be safe if that changed.

                There were words to say it, but for once, Stiles found he didn't want to rely on words.

                Stiles closed the space between them and kissed Peter.

                Peter neither kissed back nor pulled away. Stiles ended the kiss and stood upright. Peter stared at him, eyes wide with shock. He took three halting breaths.

                "Get out," Peter ordered, barely louder than a whisper.

                Stiles had expected something, but not that.

                "Get out of my study!" Peter shouted. He stood so fast he knocked back his chair.

                "Peter, what—"

                "OUT!" He roared, eyes red.

                Stiles ran to his room and closed the line of mountain ash around it. He sat on his bed and thought about how useful healing magic was instead of about how he had ruined what might have been actual friendship with Peter.


	28. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia shares her vision with Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I post a chapter, I have to go back and tell the first chapter that this will be 37 chapters again because it forgets and goes to "x/?" instead of "x/37." Is that normal? Did I do something wrong?

Lydia knelt on the floor of Stiles' new room, rocking back and forth. She whispered to herself as she rocked. "She took him. She took him. She took him."

                Stiles knelt beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Calm down, Lydia. Tell me what happened, and we'll figure it out. The only thing we can do here is think."

                "No," Lydia said. "We can see."

                The other Stiles huddled, shaking, on the floor beside them. He looked small, not just because he was thin and trembling. He was drained and beaten. Sweat plastered his bangs to his forehead, and scars climbed his throat to his jaw. His left eye churned with fire. Glowing cracks ran through the skin of his face, spreading outward from the eye. Beyond the light, too distant to reach through and touch either Stiles, waited the void. The hunger spiked in Stiles' gut at the sight of it. He pushed it back.

                Other Stiles' breaths came raggedly as he pushed himself to his hands and knees to crawl through the door. Stiles helped Lydia stand so they could follow. The door led to the hall of an unfamiliar house. It looked hazy at first but grew clearer, like his eyes had adjusted to the light. Pictures of strangers hung on the walls. The floor squelched under Stiles' shoe; it was wet with the water from a fallen vase.

                A woman with long, curled hair and a purple dress stood at the end of the hall with her hands on her hips. Stiles hadn't seen her before but suspected this was the werespider Amara.

                "Stiles," she said, "we discussed this."

                Her voice was clear. Hearing it almost made the haziness of the vision return. If this was Lydia's power, she could be honing in on the sound, finding the visuals only through their proximity.

                Stiles heard himself spit at Amara's feet. He could see it too, but the sound was more real.

                She leaned down to speak to him. "I've done everything I can for you. It's time to help yourself."

                A sharp, sweet scent hung in the air. Stiles turned his head, trying to find the source. It was him, he realized, Other Him, struggling to hold his weight up.

                Stiles asked, "Lydia, do you smell that?"

                "Yes. He's smelling it." She indicated Other Stiles. "It's the displacement. She wants him to feed on it."

                It was overwhelmingly sweet, like melting candy. Stiles couldn't feed on it, and he didn't want to. At least, it didn't make him feel the way the void did when he concentrated on it. Other Stiles would feel it differently. It would be more than a scent, and the hunger would burn through him as the sweetness of displacement surrounded him.

                "He's going to do it," Stiles said.

                "I talked him out of it. He'll resist," Lydia said.

                "For how long?" Stiles asked. Lydia's powers weren't a choice. She couldn't understand the hunger gnawing at Other Stiles.

                "Long enough to find him." Lydia marched to the window and tossed the drapes aside.

                Outside was nothing. Neither darkness nor light, only absence. It lasted forever, and Stiles couldn't be sure even the house existed within that nothing because surely nothing could. Stiles wasn't sure _he_ could exist.

                Lydia stumbled and caught herself against the window frame. She trembled

                Staring into nothing, Lydia said, "He wants you to tell Heather he loved her, that he was trying to keep her safe."

                "I don't think that matters right now," Stiles said. He pulled his eyes away from the window. "How can we help him?"

                Lydia dropped the drapes back into place. Her hand rested against the deep red fabric for a moment before she moved on. She passed Other Stiles and the woman standing over him. When she tried the front door, it led nowhere, just like the window.

                "He keeps saying he's strong enough, but he still thinks he's going to die," she said breathlessly. She'd been staring into the absence too long.

                "Lydia, we need to focus. Help me look inside." Stiles avoided looking out the door, afraid the absence would pull him in too.

                "I do still love you. It's complicated now, but I'll always love you," she said.

                She meant 'different,' not just 'complicated.' That was okay. They didn't have time to discuss it now. Stiles didn't want to discuss it.

                He pulled her hand from the door and pushed it shut before turning to study the house. Stiles knew there had to be something here. A clock on the wall counted the seconds. More flowers sat in a vase by the front window. Lydia's shoes clicked against the hardwood floor. Photos lined the mantle, and a large mirror hung on the wall above them.

                "Lydia, do you know any of these people?" Stiles grabbed a family photo from the mantle. The woman in the hall wasn't in any of them. It wasn't her house.

                Lydia snatched the photo from him and pointed to a smiling teen with freckles. "She's the one who knocked us out. She said Amara took her brother." Lydia moved her finger to a young boy, maybe eight years old.

                "Do you know where she is now?"

                Lydia pointed behind Stiles. She walked back down the hall to the master bedroom. Having a specific task seemed to focus her. The parents from the photo were dead, corpses sprawled over the mattress. They stood out harshly against sheets, like they were the only real thing here. Stiles heard flies but didn't see them. The children were tied up in the corner. The girl whispered to her brother, trying to comfort them both even as she stared at her parents' bodies.

                Stiles knelt beside the children. "I don't suppose you can hear me?"

                "We're not really here," Lydia said. "Neither are they. This hasn't happened yet."

                The girl whispered, "It'll be okay. She's not going to hurt us. You'll be okay, I promise. It'll be okay."

                The boy looked calmer, probably still in shock. He said, "I know they're dead, April."

                "But we're not." She caught her brother's eye and leaned close even though she couldn't hold him with the hands tied behind her. "We'll get out, and we'll live with Aunt Claire."

                "Mommy and Daddy won't," the boy said.

                "I'm sorry, Bobby," April cried.

                Stiles had heard enough. He stood and said, "Ask my dad to look for April, Bobby, and Aunt Claire. I don't think they'll call their parents by name." It wasn't a lot to go on without a surname, but Stiles doubted they could get more.

                Stiles glanced back at the family once more before returning to the hall.

                Other Stiles was speaking in a hoarse voice. "It will kill me. There is no back door."

                Amara laughed. "I'm stronger than you, Stiles, so I've built you a door of spider silk. All you have to do is crawl through."

                Lydia said, "He's going to die."

                "You suggested using displacement," Stiles reminded her.

                "When he was with the pack. If he does it now, he'll die." She knelt beside Other Stiles. "Don't do it, Stiles. Please, don't do it."

                "He has to feed on another too, and you locked Lair away," Stiles said.

                Lydia shook her head. "The nightmare. He'll free himself of it, then feed on it."

                "You've seen this before."

                The sweet smell began to fade. Other Stiles clawed his fingers into his eye socket to gouge out the demon eye.

                Amara licked her lips. "Delicious, isn't it? Now, the rest."

                Other Stiles held the flaming eye before him in his palm. He breathed in deeply and absorbed the last of the sweet displacement.

                Amara knelt by Other Stiles. Her teeth grew into fangs, longer than those of a werewolf and dripping with venom. She bit him.

                He screamed. He fell, body seizing on the floor. Foam bubbled past his lips. His fingers grew into sharp, black points. He spat the foam from his mouth and ran his tongue along his fangs.

                Kneeling beside him, Amara cupped Stiles' face in her hands. "I know you're hungry, darkling. I feel it too. I've felt it for centuries. The older I grow, the hungrier I become, but don't worry. I found a way to overcome it." She stroked his cheek. "If I eat a younger spider, I can replace my ancient hunger with theirs. You're so young, you're hardly hungry at all."

                She buried her fangs in his throat as Lydia screamed.

                Stiles woke screaming.

                The Hales shouted his name and pounded on his door. Mountain ash kept them out. Stiles waved the circle open. Peter, Derek, and Cora crashed into the room.

                "She's going to eat him," Stiles gasped. "The spider. She's going to turn Stiles and eat him because the hunger gets worse with age."

                "Hunger?" Peter asked. He knelt beside Stiles' bed holding Stiles hand. "She did all this because she's hungry?"

                "It's not like hunger you've felt." Stiles' breathing had calmed but he struggled for the words to explain. "It's a pit you can never fill that draws you in. You try anyway until filling the pit is everything you are, but it's like a black hole in your gut. It's never full. You never even make a dent."

                Derek said, "The nogitsune would have been worse than what she feels. It's one of few more strongly tied to the void than spiders."

                "So?" Cora asked.

                "Stiles explained a nogitsune's hunger, not a werespider's."

                Stiles trembled on the bed. Derek wasn't wrong, but the hunger Stiles described was his own. He'd never felt it like this before, not as himself. It would fade. He knew it would fade. His body shook with it.

                "That doesn't matter," Cora shouted. "Stiles is still going to die, and we can't do anything to help him. He was like our brother, Derek."

                "I know," Derek growled. His eyes flashed blue.

                Stiles said, "Lydia's going to find him. They'll save him."

                "How?" Cora asked. "Either the nightmare will kill him, or the werespider will. They can't save him."

                "They will," Stiles promised. "They saved me."

                Lydia was right. They saved him just to get a different Stiles, not the other Stiles, but their Stiles twisted by passing through the void. He wasn't supposed to survive the nogitsune.

                "If they hadn't, maybe he'd still be here." Cora stalked from the room.

                "She's just scared," Derek said. "I'll talk to her."

                "No, stay with Stiles," Peter ordered.

                "You stay." Derek left the room.

                Peter sneered at Derek's back. It had only been a few hours since Stiles kissed Peter. They were supposed to have a while longer to avoid each other. Stiles needed a while longer to avoid everything. Peter let go of Stiles' hand and stood.

                He said, "There's nothing we can do. Try to get some sleep."

                He left Stiles alone. Stiles didn't sleep. The hunger faded so he barely noticed the void was there. He stared at the ceiling until light shone through the window. At least he had plenty of time to think about how useful healing tattoos were.

                He had a lot of time to think about Lydia too. She didn't feel like a hole in his heart, and not because he thought he still had her. It was a familiar sting, but not quite loss. He'd felt it once for Malia. If Stiles went home, maybe they could fix what he'd broken. They wouldn't in a dream. Stiles wasn't home.

                When Stiles got up, Peter should have met him at the door to bully him into sparring today. He didn't.

                Stiles showered and dressed quickly. Peter still hadn't found him. His study was empty, as was the kitchen when Stiles grabbed breakfast. It was early. Only Derek consistently rose with the sun. Maybe Peter was still asleep. Cora almost certainly was. Stiles ventured downstairs past a hole in the wall instead of a secret door. Not all of Other Stiles' spells had failed yet, but more and more faded the longer he was gone.

                Derek sat in the chair with his coffee. He had a tattered science fiction novel in his lap with one finger holding his place. Without the wards, he would have heard Stiles coming.

                "You've read up on the void, right?" Stiles asked.

                Derek nodded.

                "What have you found about the nogitsune's hosts?"  
                "Nothing," Derek said. "They're dead."

                "You mean they died while possessed."

                Derek nodded. He tilted his head. "Peter's awake now. I heard you looking for him."

                Stiles bit his lip, debating whether he wanted to deal with Peter at all.

                "He probably just heard me say you were looking," Derek noted.

                Scowling, Stiles marched upstairs.

                In the kitchen, Peter was pouring himself a cup of coffee. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and rough stubble covered his neck. Stiles realized he generally saw Peter only after he'd had his coffee.

                "Does that affect werewolves like it does humans?" Stiles asked. Alcohol didn't. Drugs didn't. Why would caffeine?

                "I wouldn't know," Peter said. "I've never been human."

                "You know what coffee is for, Peter."

                Peter said, "The humans in our family drank it in the morning. The rest of us formed the habit."

                It was easy to forget there had been human Hales. They had burned to death in the fire Kate Argent set.

                "I didn't," Cora said. She swung past them both for a glass of orange juice. "I like things that taste good." She left the room as quickly as she'd come, and Stiles wondered if she'd entered specifically to interject that coffee tasted bad. He had figured Derek out, but this world's Cora was beyond him.

                Peter asked, "What do you want, Stiles?"

                "We can measure in days now how long we have before part of the pack leaves for college. This isn't a large pack to begin with, so losing two-point-five members is a lot."

                Peter sighed. "Point five?"

                "I'm counting Other Me as one-and-a-half because he has a demon in his eye, and we still haven't found a way to get him back." Stiles didn't mention that unless the pack found Other Stiles soon, they might never have a chance. At least the spider would keep him alive until he turned.

                Peter cringed at the logic but didn't argue.

                "We could use more allies," Stiles continued. "Especially human allies who know about mountain ash and the nine herbs." And wolfsbane, but Stiles thought it best not to mention while Peter was already mad at him.

                "Why not werewolf allies?" Peter asked. His voice was dangerously even, like when Stiles had trapped him.

                "I can't be the only one able to close the house's circle," Stiles said.

                Peter nodded grudgingly. They'd put a lot of money into replacing the baseboards and dealt with the contractor and his men having free reign of the house. At least the basement door had looked like a wall then.

                "If they request the bite?" Peter asked because he wouldn't be Peter if he didn't think being a werewolf was better than being human.

                One the one hand, asking for a chance to put their lives in more danger seemed crazy to Stiles. On the other, Jackson, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and Gerard had all been eager for the bite's power.

                Stiles said, "Discuss it with them if it comes to that. We need humans too though. I guess you could also adopt stray omegas like a wolfy orphanage."

                "How does that sound like a good idea to you?"

                "Mostly I want to be honest with Melissa and Heather," Stiles admitted.

                "Both of whom despise me," Peter reminded him.

                "They can get over it," Stiles said. "One of them will figure me out eventually anyway. It will be better if I come clean first."

                Peter scowled. He took a long drink from his coffee. At last he said, "Fine. Take Scott."

                He left Stiles in the kitchen without another word. Stiles supposed that was the best he could have hoped for, but he'd spent much of the last two months with Peter. He couldn't help it if he missed talking to him.


	29. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amara holds Stiles captive.

The world was fire. Stiles stood on an abyss at its center, protected from the fall by a thin pane of glass. Something writhed in his left eye. He clawed at it, but there was no eye to find, only roaches. They spread over his hand, his face. He threw them into the fire where they fed on flames and grew into demons.

                Nightmares surrounded Stiles. He spun, unable to face them all, and the glass cracked beneath his feet. He looked into the abyss and found it neither empty nor still. The darkness was too complete to make out more than the impression of movement. Nightmares stretched flaming arms across the glass disk. Stiles dodged. Glass shattered, and he fell. He reached for the edges of the hole but found nothing to grip. Looking up, he saw the flames pass through the hole and spread on all sides like they passed through a hole in a wall, not the ground.

                Stiles fell so long it felt like he hung still in the air. There was no wind here, no space. He lost sight of the flames.

                Roots grew around his ankles, though he hadn't hit any ground. Stiles tried to tug free, but the roots pulled him in deeper. He sunk beneath wood and soil. His head pounded as he suffocated. He clawed at the dirt to dig his way out. His hand breached the soil. He tugged himself along the roots, digging his way to the surface.

                Air.

                Stiles gasped. He wiped the dirt from his eyes and looked up at the nemeton. The other guy sat among its branches, smirking down at him. He looked like the photos around the house might if something leached all the joy from them, leaving a void in the other guy's place.

                "Hey, Shitty Me," the other guy said.

                Stiles stumbled to his feet. "I'm stronger than you."

                "Does it seem like anyone cares?" The other guy laughed.

                It didn't. They all wanted the other guy to return. Lydia hadn't said a word about Stiles' pack missing him. They were content to keep the other guy.

                "Your power wouldn't mean anything," the other guy said, "even if you could use it."

                Scars blossomed on Stiles' skin, running up his right arm. What little power he had regained since his injury couldn't help. There was a werespider loose, but none of Stiles' power remained to fight it.

                The other guy leapt from the tree, landing gracefully among the roots. "I'm more powerful than you,"  the other guy said. "More powerful than you can dream, but I'm the good one. I don't take it."

                Stiles frowned. "This is a nightmare. Shouldn't you be more convincing?"

                The other guy stopped to squint at him. "I'm supposed to represent your self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy relating to the other guy."

                Stiles shrugged.

                "Come on, man," the other guy pleaded.

                "I'm just not seeing what freaked Lydia out."

                The other guy shrugged. He raised one hand, and a whirlwind spun through the dreamscape. It ripped the nemeton to shreds, leaving only a stump. The other guy hopped on and patted the stump, motioning for Stiles to join him.

                Shrugging, Stiles did. Nightmares worked strangely for him now that he was part demon. Old memories could horrify him, but the dreams crafted by his own psyche tended to fail midway when he realized they were fake. This was normal for him.

                "Now, this doesn't come from me," the other guy warned. "I mean, metaphorically, it does inasmuch as I represent the other guy, but I'm having to outsource the imagery from the demon."

                Stiles nodded. His brain explained too much.

                The edges of the dreamscape were vague and undefined. They disappeared. Stiles looked out into eternity. It began to spin. Stiles wasn't sure how he knew. It was formless.

                Then it wasn't. Then nemeton floated deep in a vast ocean. No soil obscured its roots now, though Stiles couldn't see them all from his vantage on the stump. Huge currents pushed through the ocean, carrying energy older than light or darkness. Stiles saw them the way he saw auras, visible only as a translation. More of it was knowing. He perceived it, and in doing so, understood.

                Countercurrents clashed, forming massive waves though this ocean had no surface. The tides pulled at Stiles, drawing him into the waters. The other guy held him to the stump.

                Stiles had never seen power like this. He knew, in looking at it, that he saw only the smallest portion from here, a vision made safe by the remains of his binding.

                "It would be nice to float away," the other guy said, "but there are beasts in the waters."

                Stiles saw them, indistinct shapes almost beyond his vision. Their auras stretched so far he couldn't tell where they ended in the vast ocean. Some glowed like angler fish, luring him deeper. None of the beasts would tear him to shreds as quickly as the water itself.

                "Do you want to become the beast?" the other guy asked.

                Stiles shook his head. He had already taken more power than he could handle, and it was killing him. Even if he could reach this, and even if it could save him, it would only be long enough for the void to kill him instead. He wondered if the real other guy understood the same.

                The other guy crossed his arms. "So, have we processed a healthy fear of the void yet?"

                "Is that what you're here for?"

                The other guy shrugged. "It's the pressing part."

                Stiles frowned.

                "Give me a break. The demon doesn't give me a lot of chances to get at you these days," the other guy complained.

                "I can't believe my subconscious is whining at me about how it doesn't get to make enough nightmares."

                The void disappeared, replaced by a graveyard. They lowered Noah Stilinski's casket into the ground.

                The other guy stood beside Stiles in a black suit. He was taller and more muscular than a moment ago, less like his real self. His teeth were metal spikes. He said, "I'm here for a reason. The magic can pull me away and distort me, but I'll never be gone, not so long as you're still capable of humanity."

                Stiles turned away from the grave. "Are you saying you're my soul?"

                "I'm saying I'm here to protect it." He grabbed Stiles by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. "This isn't how we're supposed to work, but this is what I've got. You can't have nightmares the same way other people do because you're not the same as other people anymore. I need you to understand, Stiles. You are not void, and you are not darkness."

                "Then what am I?"

                They were in the waiting room at Deaton's clinic. Scott set his hand over Stiles' on the arm of the chair and said, "You're still a person."

                Stiles turned to the other guy, "I thought we were doing nightmares tonight."

                Scott said, "It's not too late for you."

                "This is sappy," Stiles said.

                "Stop fighting me," the other guy said.

                Stiles looked at Scott, who watched him earnestly. He believed Stiles could be better. No one back home had believed in Stiles the way Scott and Lydia did here.

                A serrated spike impaled Scott. Amara shrieked with laughter.

                The other guy leaned down to whisper in Stiles' ear, "So don't fucking turn."

                Stiles woke coughing. He'd tried to scream, he thought. Chains stopped his hands from reaching his mouth. He groaned.

                "You can't say I was wrong to think you'd try to escape, darkling." Amara stood over him. She looked human now and wore almost convincing concern on her face as she showed him a bottle of water. "This is for you. It's important to stay hydrated."

                "What happened to the swaying enchantress act?" Stiles asked.

                Amara looked around at the room. It had a white dresser and a poster of Fall Out Boy. No people.

                "Not much of an audience here," she said.

                "So you admit it's an act?"

                Her laughter was strong but not warm or contagious. "Everything's an act, darkling. Even you asking about my performance is your way of acting brave so you can pretend you aren't afraid for your life right now."

                "Life as performance. Great." Stiles rolled his eyes. "Perform the undo function and send me home."

                "Send yourself home. You brought yourself here."

                "You started it," Stiles said.

                "What are you? Eight?"

                "Performatively."

                "Cute. It'd be a shame to lose you to your own shitty binding. If only there was spider venom in your system so you could overcome it." She smirked.

                "We can't both be insufferable," Stiles said.

                "Did you prefer the swaying?" She arched an eyebrow.

                "Just give me some water."

                She poured it slowly into his mouth. Hardly any dripped down his chin.

                If Stiles opened his demon eye, it should have enough power to break the chains and escape. It would also burn through the rest of the binding. He didn't have a tattoo gun or the ink he'd made. The binding would kill him in moments without giving him enough power to kill the spider. Stiles kept the eye shut.

                "You should be able to smell it soon," Amara said. "The displacement will seem to surround you because it's coming from you. All you have to do is breathe it in."

                "Or hold my breath," Stiles countered.

                Amara took hold of his chin, but he tugged away from her touch. "You'll be more powerful as a spider than you ever have been before. That's what you want, darkling, isn't it?"

                "Why are you calling me that?" She'd used it by the lake too.

                "I think it's cute," she said. "The void helps you survive displacement, but the darkness helps you survive the transformation. You need a history of power not to be torn apart by what I'm giving you."

                Stiles scowled. "I don't want what you're giving."

                "The rest of your power won't be enough to help you while the binding kills you." She smiled and cupped his cheek in her hand. "I'm all you have left."

                "I'd clap if my hands were free. Out of ten, that was a solid nine." Stiles smiled less convincingly than she had. "But I'll always have more than you."

                She laughed again, this time with clear notes of scorn. "I can kill the pack if you're so confident they'll save you."

                "I didn't mean them." Stiles felt the false smile melt away. Everything melted away. "I'll give them a chance, but they're hardly last resort material."  
                "Then what?" Amara sneered, maybe the first honest expression to reach her face in centuries.

                "Life is a choice," Stiles said. "I don't have to make it."

                Stiles intended to kill Amara, not himself, but last resorts were never the best option. She wanted something from him, and Lydia assured him giving it would kill him. If he lost his life either way, Stiles would die rather than help Amara.


	30. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tells Melissa and Heather the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It my birthday :D

Stiles hadn't invited Malia, but she picked him up and drove him to the McCall's house since Scott didn't have a car. Stiles still didn't have the heart to ask what happened to his Jeep. He was pretty sure Other Stiles sold it along with his house and everything in it. Malia didn't talk much as they told Melissa what had happened. Stiles let Scott handle most of it.

                Melissa gave Stiles an appraising look when they were done and said, "You couldn't tell me this before?"

                Stiles shrugged.

                "Because Peter ordered you not to, right?" She raised her eyebrows.

                Stiles didn't think he should shrug again. He nodded.

                "What right does that man think he has to hide you away? I can't believe I didn't notice," she fumed.

                "I don't think you knew it was possible," Stiles said. "And you've only seen me once before."

                Melissa shook her head.

                "I'm sorry," Stiles tried.

                "It's not your fault, Stiles," she assured him. "You all should stay away from Peter though."

                "I don't want to," Stiles said.

                She leveled a terrifying glare at him, so Stiles tried to shrink back into the couch.

                "Mom," Scott said. "We were hoping to have Heather come over so we can tell her too. She doesn't know anything about werewolves, so..."

                Melissa nodded. "I'll help her out if she needs it."

                "She should be here soon," Stiles said, turning toward the street.

                Melissa said, "Until she is, you can tell me about where you come from."

                Stiles shrugged. "Beacon Hills is smaller there. Scott's our alpha."

                "Your dad?"

                "Alive. He's the sheriff."

                "He was sheriff here too," Melissa said. "Where is Scott going to college?"

                "UC Davis," Stiles said.

                Melissa nodded, pleased. "I'm honestly not sure how much I want to know," she admitted. "I'm not sure I can help comparing everything and wondering why it's different."

                "I know the feeling," Stiles said. "You're about the same though, at least as far as I can tell."

                "Is it much like here, or are parts of it wildly different?"

                Stiles shrugged. "It's like if a few different things happened than did here. Everything is similar, but askew. We're allied with Argent. Lydia and I don't hate each other."

                "I was kind of hoping you'd tell me the sky is green."

                Stiles laughed. "Peter's not alpha. I think you'd like that."

                "Was he not the one who bit Scott?"

                "No, he was," Stiles clarified, "but Derek killed him and took his power as alpha. When Peter came back to life, it was as a beta. Or omega; it's hard to tell if he was ever really part of the pack."

                Melissa's eyes were wide. "You realize you just said all that like it was perfectly normal?"

                Stiles winced. "I guess it is to me."

                Malia asked, "What's Peter like as a beta?"

                Stiles shrugged. "I think there's more difference in him than just that. Something in Peter here must have convinced you to help him." Stiles pointed at Scott. "But on my world, Peter shared his memories with Scott, and that convinced Scott to stop him instead."

                Scott frowned, thinking back. "He shared his memories with me too. He had done terrible things, but he'd also been hurt so much. I thought I could help him and bring Kate to justice. He wasn't supposed to kill her."

                That didn't really tell Stiles anything about Peter.

                "Peter is more content here," Stiles said. "Back home, he was always scheming because he wanted more power, but here, he already has it."

                Stiles wasn't sure how to explain more without revealing things Peter may not have shared with his betas and definitely hadn't with Melissa.

                He looked at Malia and said, "I wouldn't have believed the other Peter could be redeemed except that he loves you. Even so, he resists admitting it."

                Malia said, "I don't think that's so different. I know he's both, but Peter's more my alpha than my father."

                Stiles nodded.

                Melissa frowned.

                Malia stood. A moment later, the doorbell rang. Malia brought Heather into the living room and sat her down beside Melissa.

                Heather looked around the room and asked, "What is this about?"

                "It's about the secrets I kept from you," Stiles said.

                "I'm a werecoyote," Malia said without preamble. "Scott's a werewolf."

                "What?" Heather tilted her head, confused.

                Malia shifted and grinned so Heather could see her teeth as well as her eyes and claws. Scott followed suit with an apologetic wince.

                "Okay..." Heather said. She reached out to poke at Malia's claws. "I was ready for a lot of things."

                "Not this?" Stiles asked.

                Heather shook her head.

                Scott and Malia shifted back to fully human.

                "There's more," Stiles said.

                "If your eyes start glowing too, I'm going to scream."

                Stiles shook his head. "I'm human. I don't have any special powers."

                Heather sighed in relief.

                "But I came from another universe when your Stiles accidentally traded places with me because a werespider bit us."

                "Godamnit," Heather grunted. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed slowly. "You got quiet towards the end of May when you changed your phone number. That's when it happened, isn't it?"

                "Yeah." Stiles hadn't expected her to realize that.

                "You don't know how to get back, do you?"

                "I'm sorry," Stiles said. "I was trying to avoid you to keep from lying to you. Stiles asked me to tell you that he hated keeping secrets from you. He let you go to keep you safe from the monsters he was fighting because he loved you too much to see you die."

                Heather nodded. "How is he?"

                Stiles didn't want to tell her. She deserved to hear he was doing well and trying to find a way home to her. "He's in danger, but my friends are going to save him."

                Heather clenched her jaw. "Will they?"

                "Yes."

                "And then?"

                "I don't know."

                "He's trapped there?"

                Stiles nodded.

                "So I'll never see him again," Heather said as her gaze fell to the floor.

                "Probably not, but I can send messages to one of my friends there," Stiles said.

                "How?"

                "We share dreams sometimes."

                Heather hadn't looked up yet. She furrowed her eyebrows at the floor. "Tell him I loved him too. And I miss him."

                "I will," Stiles promised.

                "Did he have this conversation too? With a version of me who isn't really me?" she asked.

                Stiles' voice broke when he said, "He can't."

                "What do you mean he can't?"

                "You're dead."

                She surged forward to hug him like he wasn't a stranger at all. "I'm sorry."

                Stiles hugged her for a long moment before Melissa suggested they do something normal for a little while.

                Heather shook her head. "I think I'm going to go home. I'll text you later, Stiles. I have a lot of questions, but I need some time to process before I'm ready for the answers."

                He hugged her again to say goodbye. Melissa saw her out but left the room afterward.

                When she was gone, Stiles wasn't ready to go back to Peter's house. He'd spent enough time hiding in the basement with Derek. He'd like to talk to Peter, but being in a room with Peter right now had more in common with standing in front of a pile of bricks as it fell on you than anything else.

                "Melissa was right," he said. "We should play video games."

                Scott frowned. "You're sure there's nothing we can do to help Stiles?"

                Stiles shook his head to clear the stab of guilt. He should be fighting. "He's in another universe."

                Scott grabbed the controllers and started explaining Mario Kart to Malia.

                "I played it as a kid, Scott," Malia said as she took a controller from him. "It's been a long time, but I know the basics."

                "Sorry," Scott said.

                Malia shrugged.

                They played for a few maps before Stiles gave up and threw his controller at Scott's face. Stiles couldn't focus. He felt like a fool playing Mario Kart when he should be dealing with Peter, and he felt like a monster worrying about Peter when Other Stiles had been kidnapped by the werespider.

                "You're cheating," Stiles accused, rather than admit anything.

                Scott caught the controller. "How would I be cheating?"

                "Your werewolf reflexes give you some kind of advantage," Stiles insisted.

                Malia asked, "Then why do I keep losing?"

                "You're out of practice," Stiles explained.

                "Stiles," Melissa said, "if you break something, you have to pay for it, and not with Peter Hale's money." She leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. Stiles wasn't sure how long she'd been back. Long enough to see him throw the controller, at least.

                Stiles turned to Malia. "Hey, Malia Tate-not-Hale, can I borrow some money?"

                "You didn't break anything."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "That's not the point."

                Malia furrowed her brow. "Are you going to break something?"

                "I was being funny."

                "Not successfully."

                Stiles groaned.

                Melissa gave Stiles a pointed warning look and left them alone again.

                Scott said, "You know, Stiles. Your jokes are funnier when you're happier."

                "Okay." Stiles tried to grab his controller back, but Scott held it out of his reach.

                Malia said, "He means we know what you're doing."

                Scott said, "She means we know you're avoiding certain people."

                "Cora and Peter," Malia said in case Stiles missed their point. "Especially Peter."

                "Living with drama queens can be stressful. Honestly, I'm amazed I still get along with Derek. That family is way over the top." They were giving him _looks._ "What?"

                Scott shook his head.

                "You're very dramatic," Malia said.

                Scott winced but nodded that he agreed.

                Stiles set a hand to his chest. "Et tu, Scottie?"

                Scott tried, and failed, not to laugh.

                "Thanks," Stiles said flatly.

                Scott said, "Maybe we can help if you tell us what's wrong."

                "Someone told you by now that I'm a good liar, right?" Stiles asked.

                "That's not it," Malia said. "Cora won't tell me what you did, but it was more than just being able to lie."

                "Then I have no idea what her problem is," Stiles said.

                "And Peter?" Scott asked.

                Stiles shook his head.

                "Stiles, tell us," Malia ordered.

                "You don't want to know." Stiles didn't want to talk about it. He should be worried about getting home, about saving Other Stiles, and about winning back his girlfriend. Not... Peter.

                Scott rolled his eyes. "It can't be that bad."

                "I don't know that 'bad' is the word I'd use." Stiles grimaced. He still didn't know what word to use. Peter hadn't fully avoided Stiles since the kiss, but he hadn't spent time with him either. Stiles actually missed talking to him. He almost missed sparring and jogging with him, but only almost.

                "I swear never to tell a soul what you tell us here today," Scott said. He gave Malia a pointed look that he must have inherited from Melissa.

                "Yeah, me too," Malia agreed begrudgingly.

                Stiles dropped his head back against the couch.

                "You obviously need someone to talk to," Scott said. "Whatever it is won't just go away."

                "Fine," Stiles agreed. Holding it in was driving him crazy, but he wasn't sure what he would say until he opened his mouth. "I might sort of a little bit like Peter."

                And his mouth dove straight in to the part Stiles least wanted anyone to know. He wasn't supposed to like Peter any more than he was supposed to be on this world. He was supposed to be normal and not notice the void and date Lydia Martin, who he'd been in love with for years. That was the picture of his life he'd frame on his wall, not... _this._

                "He's the alpha. Liking him is good," Malia said.

                "I don't think he means that kind of like," Scott said. He turned back to Stiles.

                "Oh," Malia said, frowning. " _Oh_." She scrunched up her nose and twisted her upper lip like she smelled something rotten.

                Stiles suspected she would need a moment to process.

                "You did something, didn't you?" Scott asked. Stiles must have looked surprised because Scott added, "I don't care if you're a little different. We've been best friends for years. I know you. You did something."

                Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes."

                "What did you do?" Malia asked.

                "I don't know that he would be okay with me sharing it,"  Stiles said.

                Scott said, "That's not why you're resisting, so spit it out."

                Stiles opened one eye to  glare at Scott. He wasn't wrong. "I kissed him."

                "So say you're sorry, and go back to normal," Malia said. "He'll blame it on teenage hormones, or whatever adults hate about kids now, and you can be friends again."

                "I kissed him to make fun of him because I know he has feelings for me," Stiles corrected.

                "Oh," Malia said again. She narrowed her eyes to study Stiles like she meant to find whatever Peter saw in him and rip it out.

                Scott asked, "Did you tell him how you feel?"

                Stiles shook his head.

                "Maybe you should."

                "I don't know how I feel," Stiles complained. "I'm not even sure if I have a girlfriend. Besides he's... Peter."

                "That's his name," Malia agreed. "But you already told us how you feel."

                "There's a difference between realizing someone is more attractive and likeable than you let yourself notice before and deciding they're attractive and likeable enough that you want to do something about it," Stiles said. "And there's a bigger difference between liking someone and reenvisioning your entire life for him."

                "Do you?" she asked.

                "What?"

                "Do you want to do something about your feelings for him?"

                Stiles lifted his hands but dropped them hopelessly. "I don't know."

                "I thought you were supposed to be able to lie without your heart giving it away," Scott said.

                "It takes a lot of work," Stiles said. "And you have to know you're lying."

                Stiles picked at the hem of his shirt. He had let Peter avoid him, was actively helping Peter avoid him right now, because he was afraid. It wasn't having feelings for Peter that scared him so much as what those feelings would mean. A universe was a lot to give up.

                Scott said, "Pretend you don't have another home and think about what you would want if you lived here forever."

                Stiles had decided what happiness looked like for him. Cambridge and DC were a day's drive apart, and less by plane. He and Lydia could date and visit each other on weekends when they didn't have too much homework. They could video chat when the trip was too much. After college, Stiles would join the FBI. He knew he couldn't just rave about werewolves the way Fox Mulder did about aliens, but he could help people. Maybe, he and Lydia could get married.

                But that dream couldn't live on this world.

                Lydia hated him, but more than that, _Peter_ had wormed his way into Stiles' life. When Stiles tried to picture happiness here, it didn't match his plan. He still wanted to go to George Washington, but there wasn't a pre-plotted course he could follow or a map to lead the way, just Peter with his blue eyes growing less cold every time he smiled.

                The worst part was that Stiles preferred not having a plan. He'd worked hard to figure things out, to lay the foundation for the rest of his life, every moment terrified it would crumble beneath him. And now he didn't want it, not as much as he wanted to explore the paths he hadn't seen before. Who knew what he had missed while he focused his gaze straight ahead?

                "Stiles," Scott pressed. Stiles hadn't answered him.

                Stiles said, "But I might not stay here. What if I do that, and then I leave?"

                "Then at least you'll have tried."

                "What if it could ruin something back home if I returned after...?" Stiles might have already ruined his chances with Lydia. Abandoning his plan, abandoning her, would cement their nebulous fight into the end of their relationship. The pain was less than it should have been, but it was there.

                "Don't worry about that right now," Scott said. "We can look at that in a moment. Right now, just tell me what you'd want if you lived here the rest of your life."

                Stiles dropped his shirt hem only to grab it right back up again. "What I want is to take it back. I could have just talked to him, or I could have kissed him for real. Either one would be better."

                "You can't take it back," Malia pointed out. "You can ask for another chance."

                Stiles narrowed his eyes at her, "You're not freaked out by the idea of me and your dad together?"

                "I am," she assured him. "Because it's weird, but everything else about you is weird too."

                Scott shrugged. "It's mostly weird since Stiles is our age."

                Malia said. "No, it's more weird because Peter is my dad."

                Stiles bit his lip as he debated what to say next. "In the interest of full disclosure," he said. "On my old world, I dated Malia."

                "Why?" Malia asked.

                Scott went with, "I guess that's one way to move on."

                Stiles just shrugged. He didn't know that there was a right response for either of them.

                Malia nodded to herself. "Apologize to Peter."

                Scott added, "It's the right choice either way. Maybe then you can see what he's okay with."

                "Because I might have already ruined my chance," Stiles said. He hated that it hurt more to drive Peter away than Lydia because it meant he didn't want her back as much as he wanted to move on.

                "You also might not have. You won't know until you try," Scott said.

                "And at least I'll have tried," Stiles sighed.

                He wanted to try.


	31. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' binding is failing.

Stiles could hear crying from another room. He tugged at his chains. Sigils etched into the metal drained his magic as he regenerated it, leaving him empty. They had no effect on the demon's power. It ate away at the binding. Only frayed threads remained.

                The air was sharp with a sickly sweet scent that oozed from his skin like sweat. He knew it was powerful. He'd chased enough power in his life to recognize it. Still, Lydia had told him to stay human. Even as he gagged on the sweetness, he refused to take it in.

                Amara entered the room with a smile. "I know you can smell it now. It's strong enough to save you." She took a long, slow breath, demonstrating for him how simple it would be.

                Stiles watched her but didn't waste energy responding yet.

                She sat beside him on the bed she'd chained him to. "Change is hard, darkling, but this is the simplest change you've made. Transform, and you have the power to go home. When you realize you've outgrown your little pack, I'll be waiting. If the centuries have taught me anything, it's patience."

                "Why me?" he asked despite himself. If she was so patient, surely she could wait to find someone willing.

                "I needed two versions of the same person, both connected to the void. The other is unsuitable, but he served his purpose."

                "We're all you could find," Stiles sneered.

                "You're the only one worthy, my darkling," she corrected. "Most die when they meet the void. Two versions of you survived." She pet his hair like he was her dog.

                Stiles jerked his head away from her hand. "How did you find us?" He already knew the nightmare drew her to him, but no one said how she found the other guy.

                Amara smiled unkindly. "At first, I thought he came from another world. Displacement is more than being in the wrong place. Even dreams create displacement."

                "You found the other guy first." Stiles frowned. Amara had bitten the other guy on the night they were displaced. Why had she waited so long?

                "There was no scent of venom, and the displacement was too weak, like that of a dreamer, or like part of him had already died and left the rest behind." She swayed, deep in thought, and Stiles wondered how much of it was an act. "No one could tell me what was wrong with him."

                "Did you figure it out?" Stiles asked.

                Her smiled turned coy. "I have an idea, nothing proven, nothing anyone else has ever had chance to see."

                "And?" Stiles sighed. She had him chained down; the least she could do was humor him.

                "I've met many powerful creatures in my life, darkling. After all, I am powerful myself and have had a long life. Many of them give off displacement. You've met the banshee; her powers do. Her dreams have been even sweeter of late."

                She was feeding off Lydia too.

                Amara continued, "Over time you may find there are different kinds of sweetness, different sources of displacement. Dreams are soft like marshmallows. Changing worlds is a classic sugar cookie. Your own demon is like sour hard candy. Stiles is bitter like licorice. I've never tasted its like, so I sought a creature I'd never seen, one no one had ever seen."

                "He's human," Stiles said.

                Amara shimmied in excitement. "He's void."

                Stiles rolled his eyes.

                "You took a nightmare into your body, but you maintained control. He took in far worse and kept far less. I have never before met a _former_ nogitsune. No one has." A wide grin split her face. In her excitement, she let her teeth elongate into fangs.

                "That's why you can't turn him?" Stiles asked. "Because he was the nogitsune's host?"

                She hissed in delight. "If it's truly part of him, I can carry him where I like. These children don't understand what they've done or what he has the potential to become. Neither do I, but I want to see how far he can go."

                "So your plan is to turn me, grab the other guy, and continue traveling the multiverse?" Stiles frowned. That meant if he lost here, it would cost both worlds.

                "Like a circus act?" She laughed. "Darkling, I'm going to sell him."

                "Who would buy a void human?" Stiles wondered if such a thing could really exist. The void should destroy a human. Even nogitsune became its slaves.

                Amara tapped a finger against his nose. "You wouldn't know them."

                "So it can't hurt to give me a name."

                "Nor can it hurt to keep it from you. You should rest now, darkling. It will be time soon, and you'll want your strength."

                "You won't turn me," Stiles said.

                "I resisted too, when I was changed," she said, smiling down at him. She leaned closer to add, "You won't last long."

                "Then it's a good thing we're here to rescue him," Lydia said. She stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light in the hall. She raised both arms toward the spider and screamed. The force flung Amara against the wall. Scott and Malia rushed past her to Stiles' sides. They couldn't break the chains, so they broke the bed and carried him out with chains still on.

                Amara hissed. She jammed one arm, elongated into a black spike, through Malia's gut.

                Malia screamed. She dropped Stiles but beat him to the floor. She curled around the wound. Lydia pulled Malia up while Scott dragged Stiles along.

                Amara 's eyes had turned a beady black with no whites. She had eight of them, and eight limbs, each ending in a spike as hard and sharp as steel with a serrated edge. The hall cramped her elongated limbs.

                "The kids," Stiles gasped. If she was stuck, they had a chance.

                "They're safe," Scott said. "Hurry."

                Stiles could barely move, so he hoped Scott meant that for himself.

                The scent of power was sweet around him. He felt his skin crack as the demon's power began breaking through.

                "Not long," he whispered.

                Scott's eyes grew wide.

                The nightmare's power surged through Stiles, unaffected by the sigils carved into his chains. He couldn't control it without the binding, only relish in the strength of it. With the binding intact, he had access to so little of the nightmare's power, less than the amount of an eyeball. Its strength would only grow from here. Dying was almost worth it.

                Lydia screamed behind them, holding Amara at bay with her voice.

                "Stiles? Are you okay?" Scott asked. He kept glancing back. They were almost at the door, but Lydia couldn't hold Amara long.

                Magic surged through Stiles' veins. "Yeah," he said. Power burned like fire in his blood. It would boil him alive. He wanted more. "I'm dying."

                "I'm not letting you die," Scott said.

                A giant spider leg pierced Scott's chest.

                He coughed black sludge.

                Malia leapt and clung to Amara with her claws. Amara rammed against the wall to crush her. Cracks ran through the wall where she hit.

                Scott staggered toward the door, dragging Stiles by the collar of his shirt. Stiles' chains rattled on the floor behind him.

                Stiles had so much power, but not a bit he could use. He had needed something powerful enough to rip out a binding before it killed him. Displacement was the spider's primary food source, and tricksters fed for power. Amara had claimed it could defeat the nightmare. Stiles hoped it was good for more than that.

                He breathed in the sweetness surrounding him. It's power was like a blizzard to the nightmare's fire, shards of glass piercing the nemeton's beating heart. Stiles ripped the chains from his wrists like paper.

                It wasn't enough. Amara had fed on this for centuries; one breath couldn't defeat her.

                Stiles wrapped the new energy around the demon inside him and the ink holding it in place and ripped them out with a scream. He hurled the mass of power at Amara. It felt like tearing the bones from beneath his flesh and beating her with them.

                Amara shrieked as she burned. It ended in a flash of light, not quite like lightning. A husk shaped like a woman collapsed to the floor. Stiles spat on her as she crumbled to ash.

                He took his phone from his pocket. She'd been so sure of his weakness, so certain of her victory, she never even took Stiles' phone from him. He called his dad.


	32. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles apologizes to Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine this chapter and the last happening simultaneously because that makes the tonal clash even worse. I'm not sure WHY that amuses me, but it's probably because I'm not a good person.

Stiles cornered Derek and Cora. He shoved a finger under each of their noses and told them, "You two are hereby banished for several hours, starting now."

                "It's my house," Cora said.

                "We all live here," Stiles corrected. "I think technically it's Peter's house."

                "Peter," Cora said, "the alpha. Not you, so you can't order us out."

                By his eyebrow placement, Derek was amused, not annoyed. He said, "Just tell us why you want us gone."

                Because Stiles had kissed Peter and hated it a lot less than Peter had.

                "I've been a dick to your uncle, and he won't engage in an honest discussion if you can hear us. I'll also be self-conscious. I'm very shy. I can hardly speak right now, to be honest."

                Derek asked, "Are you going to apologize to him?"

                "Yes, that's what I said."

                Derek's face said it was not, but he didn't press the point.

                Cora's eyes widened. "Is it about what you told Heather?"

                Stiles had told Heather he was encouraging Peter. While he'd said it was unintentional, Cora must have thought that part a lie. She had only what she'd observed to decide which parts had been lies. Stiles and Peter had become friends. They spent a lot of time together for a while there, both because they needed to work together and because they wanted to. Cora could see that, and she could see that Stiles stopped the instant she learned about it. She thought Stiles had used Peter and cast him aside.

                Stiles almost forgot to respond, but Derek cleared his throat.

                "Some," Stiles said.

                "And the rest?" she pressed.

                "Related." Stiles didn't want to say more until he'd spoken to Peter.

                "Then we'll go," Cora agreed. "But it better be a damn good apology."

                Derek's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "What did you say to Heather?"

                "And why didn't anyone tell me if it was important?" Peter asked as he stepped into the room. Stiles swore he'd had the house built with sharp angles just so he could lurk around the corners.

                "I told you I couldn't tell how much was lies," Cora said. She dragged Derek away, leaving Stiles and Peter alone.

                "Well?" Peter asked.

                Stiles stepped closer so he could look Peter in the eye when he apologized. "I'm gonna cut straight to the point, fast like tearing off a band-aid, right?" He took a deep breath. "I shouldn't have kissed you to prove a point. I'm sorry."

                "Thank you, Stiles. I feel better," Peter said bitterly.

                "I can do it more convincing," Stiles said. "I—"

                "I don't want an apology," Peter interrupted him.

                Clearly he wanted _something_ or he wouldn't be so angry.

                "Would you rather I kiss you again?" Stiles asked. He hadn't been sure he would do more than apologize until he said it.

                "I want to forget it happened."

                "Am I that bad a kisser?"

                "What the hell are you doing, Stiles?" A deep growl rolled through Peter's throat behind the words.

                "I was unclear," Stiles said. Peter thought he had mocked him and now wouldn't let it go. That was Stiles' fault for not sorting through his own feelings. "I'm apologizing for the way I kissed you, not for kissing you at all. I actually would like very much to kiss you for real."

                Every dream not sent to him by a banshee had been about Peter. Sometimes they were friends again, and sometimes Peter chased him through the high school with his eyes glowing red until he eventually ripped Stiles' throat out. Stiles tried not to think about the dreams of kissing Peter. They were too distracting.

                "This isn't a joke," Peter realized. He sat down with Stiles and fixed him with a solemn stare. "Stiles, you're eighteen."

                "I'm aware of that."

                "I'm thirty-five."

                "I wasn't aware of that, but it's lower than I'd expected." He paused to calculate. "You were only seventeen when Malia was born."

                "Which is how I know your age disqualifies you from making good decisions." Peter frowned.

                "I'm an adult."

                "Barely."

                " _I'm an adult,"_ Stiles repeated. "My decisions don't have to be good, but you have to respect that they're mine."

                "Good thing it takes two to tango." Peter smirked, but hollowly, like he couldn't afford to be amused or to admit that he wasn't.

                "Don't pretend not to care," Stiles said. "You cared first. I only figured it out on accident."

                "You're vain enough to want someone just for wanting you. Congratulations."

                Stiles grabbed Peter's hand and willed him to understand Stiles was being honest. "You get to choose, Peter; we both do. But that's not the same as making excuses." Stiles took a deep breath. "I like you, Peter. I know you like me too. I don't care about anything else."

                Peter squeezed Stiles' hand to remind him of the bond before speaking. "My family burned alive, and I was left in a coma because an older woman seduced my nephew. I lost my daughter, who then lived half her life as a coyote, because I was dumb enough to sleep with an older woman. Our age gap is greater than both of those combined."

                "But I'm not a minor," Stiles reminded him. "And you haven't said the words, 'I feel uncomfortable being intimate with someone so much younger than I am even though he is of age,' or even, 'I'm not interested in a relationship with you, Stiles.' So I'm pretty sure neither of those is true."

                "Why are you making this so hard?" Peter demanded.

                "Don't hand me innuendos you aren't prepared for," Stiles warned.

                "Aren't you trying to leave this universe?"

                "I don't see a way out."

                "I told you I'm insane."

                "You told me you're seeing a therapist." Stiles was pretty sure that made him less insane than the Peter from his old world, who could very much use a therapist.

                "I murdered someone in front of you."

                "I'm not okay with that, but we can work through it." Stiles hated that Peter had killed Merc, but Stiles had killed Donovan. He wasn't better than Peter. He wouldn't pretend to be.

                "I'm not in the market for a fling."

                "Good. It'd be awkward if we broke up, but I still lived in your house."

                "If you were mine, I wouldn't let you go back. You would stay with me."

                Stiles scoffed. "One: You don't make my decisions. That's half the point of this conversation. And Two: I'm already yours."

                A thrill ran through Peter so powerfully Stiles felt it through their clasped hands. Stiles grinned. If he'd had any doubts that Peter wanted him, they wouldn't stand against this.

                Peter shook his head incredulously. "Why does nothing dissuade you?"

                "I'm stubborn. What's your excuse? I thought taking what you want was your thing."

                Peter smirked. "It is, but half the fun is making it want to be taken."

                "You never said you weren't interested," Stiles realized with a groan because he should have noticed sooner. He _had_ noticed sooner but let Peter distract him.

                Peter had immediately thrown excuses at Stiles, forcing him to defend his decision. Instead of trading an apology for a new kiss, Stiles had to prove he'd thought this decision through and was ready to accept Peter.

                "You get crinkles around your eyes when you smile," Stiles said, but he couldn't help grinning as he did.

                "We already discussed my age," Peter said, unperturbed.

                "I fucked your daughter."

                Peter finally looked appropriately horrified. Stiles worried he'd gone too far. It was probably smart to be upfront about having dated Malia, but Stiles could have worded it... not like that. Peter looked down at their hands. He blinked a few times like maybe that would change them.

                "You were right," Peter said. "You're winning this game."

                Stiles had screwed up. He said, "I guess that's the deal breaker, then."

                "I'm traumatized, but I've had worse. I sometimes spied on my nephew making out with his girlfriend when we were younger. That's not worse. Just..." His eyes narrowed as he paused. "Is this how you feel all the time? Your mouth runs off ahead of you?"

                "No. Only like half of what I think comes out of my mouth. I'm just not always sure which parts you're going to get or whether it reached you in order." Stiles figured he might as well go all in. If Peter wanted to start something, he should be ready to finish it. "I'm never going to accept the bite. If I can hold off the void itself, you're not going to find something that convinces me to change."

                "Then it's a good thing I like you the way you are too."

                "Too? You're throwing a 'too' at me?"

                "You would make an excellent werewolf."

                "I'm not making a werewolf at all."

                "I'm just trying to be honest," Peter said. The bond left a tickle at the back of Stiles' throat because it was a joke, not outright truth. He was trying to mess with Stiles, even if he was doing it without lying.

                Stiles let go of Peter's hand. When Peter tried to stand, Stiles pushed him back into his seat and straddled his lap. He leaned forward to press his forehead against Peter's and look into his clear blue eyes. When Peter put his arms around him, Stiles took that as permission. He kissed Peter slowly, almost afraid to bring their lips together lest he spoil the moment. This time, Peter kissed him back. He slid one hand up Stiles' back to cradle his neck, and the other moved lower to cup Stiles' ass. Stiles gripped Peter's face for something to hold on to.

                Peter grabbed a fistful of Stiles' hair and tugged his head back.

                "Come on. What now?" Stiles groaned.

                "The pack will notice."

                "Don't care."

                "Do we have a label to share with them or are we not defining ourselves?"

                "I'm bisexual, but you make your own decisions."

                Peter leaned back, putting more distance between himself and Stiles. "Not what I meant."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. He disentangled himself from Peter's lap and knelt in front of him. Taking Peter's hand in his, he asked, "Peter, will you make me the happiest displacement victim on this world and be in boyfriends with me?"

                It took Peter a moment to pull himself together and say, "That was the biggest load of garbage I've ever seen fall out of a single mouth." He smirked. "I'd be delighted to."

                He tugged Stiles back onto the couch and reminded him how much Stiles enjoyed kissing.

                When Derek and Cora returned home, they had Scott and Malia in tow. The four of them found Stiles and Peter still on the couch. Peter's hair was a mess, and his shirt was wrinkled. Stiles suspected he looked just as bad.

                Scott grinned and gave Stiles a thumbs up while Cora mimed gagging. Derek groaned. Malia looked a little lost, liked maybe she'd expected it not to work out despite her advice.

                Stiles pulled himself away from his new boyfriend and sat primly on the couch. Peter lounged beside him with his feet on the coffee table.

                Cora told Stiles, "You move fast."

                Stiles shrugged. Peter had been angry with him that morning, and now he... wasn't.

                Derek added, "Maybe too fast. Are you sure you're not rushing into this?"

                Stiles said, "Maybe _you're_ rushing to question me."

                Cora said, "Stiles can YOLO himself into all the bad decisions he wants."

                Peter raised an eyebrow. "Did you just call me a bad decision?"

                "Am I wrong?" Cora mimicked him with raised an eyebrow of her own.

                "No, it's just rude."

                Cora chuckled and turned to Stiles, "So are you Malia's step-dad now?"

                Stiles groaned.

                "Never," Malia said.

                Derek asked, "Should we call you Uncle Stiles?"

                "Absolutely not," Stiles said. "I'm unmarried."

                "For now," Cora said. She tapped a finger against her lip as if in thought. "I think I could use a mother figure in my life."

                "I'm not motherly. Derek's motherly." Stiles jabbed a finger at Derek.

                Cora continued like Stiles hadn't spoken, "Children of single parents are more likely to have trouble in school. Malia had two single dads until now, so I think you can have a real positive impact on her grades."

                "Why are you making fun of me instead of Peter?" Malia asked.

                Scott said, "Do you remember what you did the last time Peter had a date?"

                "That wasn't my fault," Malia growled.

                "What'd she do?" Stiles asked. They hadn't mentioned this when they told Stiles to ask Peter out.

                "Nothing," Peter said. He leaned back against the couch, apparently unaffected by his pack's teasing. Though Malia wasn't wrong, little of it focused on Peter.

                "I know," Stiles said. "No one's teasing Peter because it's obvious he has such great taste. I'm amazing."

                "You're his boy toy," Scott corrected.

                "Am not!"

                Peter said, "Well, I'm obviously the sugar daddy."

                "Never say that again," Stiles ordered, raising one hand to stop the idea from reaching him.

                Stiles pulled out his phone to distract himself and text Heather, **You may have been more right than previously implied.**

                She replied almost immediately. **Don't tell me you asked Peter out.**

                **It's better than dealing drugs.**

**Not by much. Is he a monster too?**

**Werewolf alpha.** There was still so much he hadn't explained to Heather, but he was sure they'd have time.

**Real wolf packs are more like families. The study about their social hierarchies was using a bunch of unrelated wolves.**

**Their eyes turn different colors and that's like 60% of what I know about alphas ok.**

**Fine. You'll tell me the other 40% soon?**

**If I survive his family's mockery.**

                Cora poked Stiles' shoulder. "Who are you texting?"

                "Heather."

                She shook her head. "Only hours in and already texting your ex."

                Heather just sent back a, **lol** , so Stiles assumed the conversation was done.

                Derek and Peter had moved away from the others while Stiles was distracted, but they must have underestimated the range of mere human hearing. Stiles opened his twitter app to look busy while he listened in to their whispers.

                "You don't think it's suspicious that this happened right after he shared a vision of his other self dying?" Derek asked.

                "It started before that and culminated today," Peter corrected.

                "Peter, it's your responsibility to be the adult."

                "We're both adults, so my responsibility is to respect him."

                "He's acting out because he's about to lose hope," Derek insisted.

                "Maybe it will be nice for him to have someone to go to when he does."

                "What are you going to do when he's over you?" Derek asked.

                Peter didn't answer, so Stiles turned to see his expression. It was cold and hard. He had his arms crossed in front of him and his back to the wall. He held his head tilted with his chin jutting forward so he stared down his nose at Derek.

                Stiles said, "I would hope he'll screaming, 'Harder! Harder!' from underneath me."

                Cora and Scott burst out laughing.

                Malia groaned.

                Peter said to Derek, "You have to admit, he's got you there."

                Derek sighed and clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Just remember you're a proper gentleman, and don't put out on the first date. Make him work for you."

                "I've done that before," Stiles said. "Had sex _before_ our first date, actually. To be honest, I sometimes enter a party, and someone will walk up and kiss me out of nowhere because I am literally irresistible. Peter doesn't stand a chance."

                Peter laughed.

                "Your reputation is in shambles," Derek said as he left the room, shaking his head.

                "I can't tell if Derek's more amused or worried," Stiles said.

                "I don't think Derek can either," Cora said. "He worries too much."

                "I don't think he's ever stopped worrying in his life," Scott agreed.

                "He doesn't know how," Cora confirmed.

                "Hey, guys," Stiles said. "Can my boyfriend and I have the room?"

                Cora gagged. "Just because I'm supporting you doesn't mean I want you making out where I can hear."

                "You have superhuman hearing," Stiles said. "You can hear everywhere."

                "I know."

                "I suggest you start spending more time downstairs with your brother." Stiles winked.

                When the others had gone, Stiles grabbed Peter by his shirt to tug him forward and throw his arms around his neck.

                "Literally irresistible?" Peter asked.

                "That's a true story," Stiles insisted. "It happened twice."

                Peter smirked. "Well, it's not like you're wrong."

                "Less talking, more kissing." Stiles pushed Peter against the wall and followed his own directions.


	33. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles discusses events with Lydia.

"We did it!" Lydia cried out, bouncing onto the bed. She looked around at Peter's bedroom. "Where are we?"

                The bed was much larger than Stiles'. It had a memory foam mattress and the softest sheets Stiles had ever felt. Stiles wasn't sleeping here, but he had rolled on the bed to tease Peter.

                Stiles reverted the dream space to his own bedroom. Lydia studied the room like she would find something else wrong.

                "Which 'it' did you do?" he asked.

                "Your dad found the family and their address. We saved Stiles. He used the displacement to—"

                "You said that would kill him."

                Lydia shook her head. "Only if he was alone with her. I told you we found them. We were there, and it worked. He used it on the demon and the binding at the same time, and then on the spider too."

                "I thought removing the binding would kill him."

                "The dangerous part was the deepest," Lydia explained. "No magic we had was strong enough to tear a binding out all at once."

                Stiles squinted at her. "You're saying displacement was strong enough? Werespiders aren't witches."

                "Because they have to consume the displacement, but the only way to absorb it is with a werespider's venom."

                Stiles tilted his head. "Does that mean the venom can be harvested to let other people use displacement?"

                Lydia paused, staring wide-eyed at him. "I have no idea. That's not the point. Stiles breathed in his own displacement but didn't take the next step. He used it instead."

                "On his binding and the nightmare inside it," Stiles said. "Was he like dual-wielding? One hand for the nightmare and one for the spider?" He lifted his hands one at a time to represent Other Stiles' more magical hands.

                "He threw the nightmare at her, actually."

                "Isn't it an eyeball?"

                "Yeah, but when he wrapped it up in all that magic, it was more like a fireball."

                Stiles squinted harder. "Are all nightmares fiery, or is that special to his?"

                "I don't know."

                "So does he have an eye patch now?"

                "Yes, for now. I... Why are you being so weird? We beat the monster. I wish he hadn't killed her, but we were going to die. I think she was nearing the end of her life anyway."

                "Because she needed to eat him to keep from starving to death. That part, at least, makes sense." Stiles shook his head. "No, I take that back. I understand it; that doesn't mean anything in our lives makes sense."

                "Another thing that doesn't make sense," Lydia said, "Amara intended to sell you. We don't know anything about her buyer, but you could be in danger."

                "Sell me?" It couldn't be Amara's venom because she could infect whomever she liked, and Stiles was poorly suited to it anyway. She knew he could survive the void. Maybe she knew more.

                Lydia said, "Hosts don't survive nogitsune possession. You're a rarity."

                Stiles nodded. He asked, "Can Other Me still use magic?"

                "It's coming back. He blew everything he had on fighting Amara and helping Deaton after the fight since Amara infected Scott and Malia. They're fine now," she assured him. "Stiles says he won't be as strong without the demon, but I get the feeling he won't be weak either."

                "Is her fang venom different from her foot-spike venom?" Stiles asked.

                "I'm... not sure. I don't know how they compare chemically, but functionally, one makes spiders and the other hurts people."

                Stiles suspected she hadn't thought about it before.

                Lydia walked through the hall as she spoke and pushed the door open. They stepped back into Peter's room. The decor matched the rest of the house—rich but not gaudy, modern but not sparse.

                "Stiles, why were we in here?" Lydia asked.

                "Because this is where I was in my dream before you got here," he said.

                "You usually leave your dream to see me."

                Stiles frowned. The dream had disappeared around him when Lydia appeared.

                He said, "There's something I should tell you, but I'm not sure how I should say it."

                What he should have done was told her sooner, but so much had been happening on her world. It felt like more happened in Stiles' dreams than his life.

                "We can come around to it," Lydia assured him. "Other Stiles has been discussing college with your dad."

                "He wasn't going," Stiles said.

                "And you were."

                "I was leaving this coming Sunday."

                Stiles had thought, when he first arrived here, that he'd be home before summer ended. He would have his last adventure, then pick up his life where he left off. He'd known they would find a way to defeat Amara. He'd known, even though Scott refused to kill, that the spider probably wouldn't survive. Their enemies rarely did. But there had been a chance. Deucalion and Peter helped the pack sometimes. Ethan and Aidan had sort of joined it. Stiles still didn't know what Theo was doing out of the ground. Amara could have helped too.

                "I'll tell you as soon as we find something," Lydia promised.

                Stiles shook his head. "Tell Stiles to live his life, not mine, at least as much as he can in the wrong universe."

                "What about you?"

                "I'm all set." He sat on Peter's bed and motioned around him. "It's not like I'd want for anything here. I can go to DC in the spring."

                "You knew," Lydia realized. "How long have you known you weren't coming home?"

                Stiles shrugged. He wasn't certain, to be honest.

                "We'll keep looking," she promised.

                "No, you'll live your lives but stay dream pen pals with me." Stiles swallowed a bitter lump and felt it fall to the pit of his stomach. He hadn't expected this to hurt so much, not when he'd already given up. This made no difference. It only felt like it did.

                "You can't know there's no way back," Lydia argued.

                "Lydia, I know there _is._ It's calling me. I can feel it reaching out to pull me in, but if I let it, I wouldn't be myself anymore by the time I got home. You can let Lair go free, and see if she leads anywhere better. I'm just not..."

                He clenched his teeth. He felt the void, stronger even than when he showed Lydia. Letting Lair search couldn't help him, but it could ease his friends into the idea of losing him.

                Lydia licked her lips nervously. She sat beside Stiles and took his hand. "You have to live your life too, Stiles."

                "I told you, I'm all set. I have everything I need here, and I... I met someone." That was technically accurate.

                "Oh." Her voice was thin. Maybe she'd be glad to lose him after this.

                "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I didn't realize it at first, and then there was so much happening on your side that excuses got easy to make."

                "Excuses have never been hard for you, Stiles." She said it softly though. "I guess I hoped I'd be harder to get over."

                "I'll never be over you, Lydia. You know I still love you." It was different, but it was still love.

                The pain in Lydia's eyes said she understood as clearly as it said she didn't want to. Stiles could have pretended to move on completely to spare her to pain, but he'd lied enough.

                She asked, "Do you love her?"

                "Him," Stiles corrected. "I never really came out, did I?"

                "You're not that subtle." She paused. "You didn't answer me."

                Stiles shook his head. "It's too soon for that."

                "Well, I'm still jealous," Lydia said, clearly trying for a joke. "Is it someone I know?"

                Stiles nodded. "Peter."

                Lydia's eyes widened in shock. Her jaw dropped. He could practically see her next sentence forming behind her eyes.

                "Is this a joke?"

                There it was. Even Peter thought it was a joke at first.

                "No," Stiles bit off.

                "Why Peter?"

                "Why not Peter?" Stiles countered.

                "He's _evil_." The way she said it made it clear there was so much more than one small word.

                "I will bring your ex-boyfriends into this," Stiles threatened.

                "He's _your_ ex's father," she said. Her tone had turned accusing.  

                "That literally never occurred to me, Lydia. I'm cured." He pretended to throw confetti. Since this was a dream, confetti flew from his hand then drifted down to settle around them.

                Stiles had almost thought they'd make it through tonight without fighting. He'd almost thought Lydia would forgive him, and they'd both move on. They lived in different universes now. They couldn't be together. Besides, Stiles found more than Peter here. He was finally free from his fear of leaving, of being forgotten, of being unimportant. He'd left already. No one forgot him. He was important, but not vital.

                Lydia furrowed her brows but kept the frown from her lips as she asked, "Are you trying to sabotage your own life because you're afraid you're stuck?"

                "I see no reason dating Peter would ruin my life. Even if we break up, I can go hide at college until he's not mad anymore." He might have to find out if Derek had exaggerated the worth of an original binding, but he could supplement that with a part time job.

                "Do you expect me to believe you actually like Peter Hale?"

                "Yes!" Stiles flailed his arms to make his point stick. "Peter makes me feel wanted even though I replaced a much more powerful packmate. Maybe it's vain, but I like the way that feels."

                "You were never unwanted here, Stiles. I know you worried about leaving, about whether Beacon Hills needed you too much to let you go or whether it never needed you at all. It does need you. We need you. We want you to come back."

                Stiles hit his knuckles against his palm as he tried to find the words to explain. "I was terrified of leaving because I was afraid I'd find out no one needed me. Replacement Me is enough to protect Beacon Hills. He's stronger than I am."

                "Stiles, we miss _you._ We want you back."

                "I miss you all too," Stiles said. "Being afraid no one needed me was different than wanting to know because half of fear is hoping I never find out in case it's true."

                "We wouldn't have survived without you," Lydia reminded him.

                "I'm saying I'm not afraid anymore. Other Stiles proves that I can be replaced. There's a difference in knowing. You're the one who said I changed. I don't have to feel needed anymore, and I found someone who prefers wanting me over needing someone else."

                "Do we just not matter anymore?"

                "Choosing Peter isn't the same as choosing Peter over you."

                "No matter who you choose, I want you to be happy; we all do." Lydia took his hand. "But do you really think you can you be happy with Peter?"

                "Lydia, I like Peter. I don't yet, but I think I'd like to love him someday. He's not safe, and he doesn't fit into some romantic dream of what my life could be. But he's sexy and strong. He's snarky and intelligent. He thinks I'm at least half as smart as you instead of writing me off as a goofy sidekick. When he thinks he's outwitted me, he gets that smug smirk, and when he realizes he hasn't, it grows into the most amazing smile. He likes me because he's impressed by me. You know how good that feels. Admiration was why I fell in love with you."

                Lydia bit her lip as she heard him out. "I know how charming Peter can be when he wants something. I had visions of him as a teenager while he was technically dead. He was confident, handsome, and flirty, and I fell for it. By the time I knew who he was, it was too late. Peter is a manipulator; he will never be fully honest. He'll have some ulterior motive." Lydia took his hand. "This is serious, Stiles. He could hurt you. I don't want to see you hurt."

                Stiles doubted Peter could hurt him worse than he could hurt Peter.

                Stiles said, "When I asked him out, Peter didn't tell me how he felt. He manipulated me into fighting for him before we'd even begun to date. It didn't make me feel angry or used. It made me determined, and I turned it around and did the same to him, but better."

                Lydia frowned, but she took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "I'm not going to lie and say I understand, but I do hope you're happy. I assume I'll be back with arguments from everyone else you know, including yourself."

                "Try to memorize their faces when you tell them." Stiles didn't look forward to more of this. If everyone believed he was so great, why did no one trust him?

                "Are you into sadism now too?" Lydia asked.

                "Please?" Masochism, more like.

                "Fine, but I wish you would be honest about what's going on with you."

                "What are you talking about?"

                "You didn't mention it, but I think you like the danger in dating Peter. I understand; I've dated dangerous men."

                "Okay," Stiles said. "And?"

                Lydia shook her head. "You just have a lot going on right now, and I don't think everything has fallen into place for you. You're dating Peter and taking pleasure in the shock value while arguing that you genuinely care for him. Maybe you have more reasons for what you're doing than you've admitted to yourself yet."

                "I'm a complex person," Stiles said. "It's part of what he sees in me. That and I've yet to spike his drinks with wolfsbane despite living with him for over two months and having many chances. It builds trust."

                "What the hell was that?"

                "Apparently, I compensate for my discomfort in serious situations with inappropriate humor. I don't think that's new," Stiles said. "Maybe I was just doing it more in the background before."

                "You don't do it every time, Stiles. Usually, you do it when you're lying."

                She disappeared before either of them could say more.

                Stiles didn't have to care if Lydia believed him. He and Peter had started dating; they hadn't gotten married. There was time to explore what they meant to each other. He lay back in Peter's bed and fell into a natural dream.


	34. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack decides how to handle Lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is giving me so much trouble. Hopefully I'll be satisfied with it by posting-time tomorrow.

Stiles had never seen the whole pack in one place. It was a lot of people to have staring at him. This pack was larger than his old one. Even Peter had come, though he stood against the wall watching everyone like he wasn't sure why he'd been invited. Stiles recognized most of them, including a hopefully friendlier version of Chris Argent. Some of the younger pack members, Stiles had only seen once or twice.

                The deputy—Parrish—standing by Noah, Stiles had only met a few days ago when Parrish arrived after Stiles called his father to the house Amara had kept him in. Scott and the others saved a child and a teenager, but their parents were both dead in the master bedroom. Deputy Parrish had interviewed the kids and contacted their aunt. Apparently, Parrish was a hellhound, but no had found time yet to tell Stiles what that entailed.

                There was also someone lurking in the doorway. If he didn't look like such an asshole, Stiles would swear he was Theo Raeken.  Liam kept giving maybe-Theo warning looks, like he worried the guy was more likely to misbehave than Peter.

                Scott stood in front of the fireplace and looked around at his pack. "Stiles—the one in the other world—thinks we should free Lair now that the spider is gone."

                Stiles, the one in this world, raised his hand. "She tried to kill me."

                "Which is why we wanted to discuss and plan as a group," Scott said.

                Lydia said, "He thinks she'll search for a way back, so we may be able to use her to get you home."

                Except that with the nightmare destroyed, Stiles could no longer travel through the void. He said, "That can't work."

                Noah said, "Let's return to the part where she tried to kill Stiles."

                "With Amara gone, Lair has no reason to hurt Stiles," Lydia insisted.

                "Especially since it'll be one of the terms for her freedom," Scott added.

                Corey said, "She might kill us out of spite."

                Malia said, "Leaving bad guys locked up doesn't work. They get out. Peter did. Valack did. The nogitsune did. Kate, Theo, the ghost rider we locked in a cage. No one stays trapped."

                So maybe asshole-face was Theo after all. He smirked when Malia mentioned him.

                Peter looked offended. "I also came back from the dead, which is much more impressive."

                Everyone ignored Peter.

                Hayden said, "Letting her go could foster goodwill."

                Liam added, "Or at least cancel some of the bad will from locking her up."

                "Which she earned," Stiles reminded him.

                Liam nodded his acceptance.

                Lydia said, "I think Stiles has some sort of alliance with her alpha. We can offer her a chance to pass messages in exchange for good behavior."

                Stiles kept having to turn his head too far to see anyone on the left side of the room. He'd lost more than magic with his demon eye.

                Mason said, "Or we could ask if she wants to stay. She wouldn't be the first person in this room who tried to kill another."

                Most eyes turned to Peter and Theo. Corey and Hayden exchanged a glance. Scott gave Argent an awkward smile.

                Malia said, "I only attacked them because I wanted my sister's doll back."

                Scott shook his head. "Mason, you have a point, but we learned the hard way not to trust just anyone." This time, he glanced at Theo.

                "So talk to her," Mason said.

                Scott turned to Stiles and waited, obviously hoping for permission.

                "Fine," Stiles said. "It's your pack."

                "It's your pack too, Stiles," Scott said.

                Stiles took a moment before asking, "Does that mean Malia isn't allowed to break my arm again?"

                "Malia broke your arm?" Noah asked, anger rising in his voice.

                "He was fine," Malia said.

                "Stiles," Scott pressed. He still hadn't gotten a real answer.

                "I want to be there when you talk with her. And maybe a trial period before she's allowed near me alone."

                Scott was naturally trusting. Stiles would be skeptical for him.

                "We'll ask her to leave first," Scott promised. "Later, if she wants, maybe she can return. Right now, she's still at Eichen." They hadn't let Stiles go to Eichen House before.

                "I'm sure you'll protect me." Stiles pulled out the finger guns so Scott would know how little Stiles believed he'd need it. The demon eye was gone, but the rest of Stiles power remained.

                "I'm not going," Malia said.

                "That's okay," Scott replied. "I'll just take Lydia and Stiles."

                "You mean Lydia will take you and Stiles, because you don't have a car," Malia corrected, "because you refuse to use the Jeep a day before Stiles agreed to give it to you."

                "Yes," Scott agreed, only slightly exasperated.

                "The other guy gave you the Jeep?" Stiles asked.

                "It wouldn't do him as much good in DC," Scott said. "Would you rather I didn't take it? I can try to find another car..."

                "Dude said it's yours," Stiles said. "It was his car, not mine. It's yours."

                Scott looked ready to say more but let it go and led Stiles outside instead.

                As they left the house, Stiles asked, "Did you really gather your whole pack for just that?"

                Scott shook his head. "We wanted them to see you, and to see us including you."

                "You realize some of them can still hear you, right?" Stiles asked.

                Scott rolled his eyes and got in the car. "They aren't always listening. Peter probably is, but it's not like I'm trying to fool anyone."

                "We're setting an example," Lydia said. She started the car and turned to head out to the main road.

                Stiles frowned. "Because you need them to work with me when you're gone."

                "Away isn't the same as gone," Scott assured him.

                "Just don't make Corey my babysitter. I don't like his invisible thing."

                Scott turned so Stiles could see his grin. "Liam will be in charge while I'm away."

                "Isn't he like twelve?"

                Scott laughed.

                "It's nice to know that both versions of you enjoy my pain, Scott. I was beginning to think being a true alpha made you a good person."

                Scott shrugged.

                Stiles asked Lydia, "And you support this _Liam_ too?"

                "Yeah," she said, though her tone was distracted.

                Scott turned to her. "Is something wrong?"

                She sighed. "Yes, maybe. It's... I promised to tell everyone something for Stiles, and I don't know how to do it."

                Stiles asked, "Have you considered just repeating whatever words he used when he told you?"

                "We just had everyone together," Scott said. "I could have helped you."

                Lydia shook her head. "I don't want to see them all at once."

                "Is it something bad?" Stiles asked.

                "It's something complicated."

                "I'll tell them for you if it's too hard," Scott promised even though they didn't know what it was.

                "I'm supposed to tell him how they reacted."

                "So I'll tell you," Scott said. "It's not fair how much work you have to do. I'd take a turn if I could. Let me do this much for you."

                Lydia nodded. "I'll tell you later. We're here."

                She parked outside a building that looked more like a movie's idea of an insane asylum than an actual mental hospital. Stiles supposed the building was old.

                Eichen House had an metal gate with a callbox. An orderly made them empty their pockets in the lobby. Lydia and Scott were oddly quiet through it all. They'd done this before. A security guard led them downstairs, spewing instructions that no one responded to. They were here to release Lair, so Stiles wasn't sure why it mattered how far he stood from the glass.

                They reached a hall filled with cells, each one with glass walls or windows. These patients had no privacy. They wore grey or white. Some had fur or scales. One looked, for a moment, like Natalie Martin.

                Lair's cell was midway down the hall, flanked by a wendigo and a woman who looked almost human, though she had sickly yellow eyes with slit pupils. Lair glared at them from behind a wall of reinforced glass. They had taken her scarf, probably because it could be used to strangle herself or others, just like Stiles' belt. She wore the same grey pants and shirt most Eichen patients did. Stiles couldn't see the darkness of Lair's aura since he'd lost his eye. He couldn't smell the displacement's sweetness either, so the spider's venom must have left his system.

                "You tried to kill Stiles," Scott said.

                Lair crossed her arms. "After he told me he was about to die anyway because he supposedly had no chance of removing the binding. I see he isn't dead."

                "I'm pretty sure you did it just to spite the spider," Stiles said.

                Lair shrugged. She eyed Stiles, gaze lingering on his missing eye. "I could sense the void from both of you, but it's gone now. I don't have a way home, do I?"

                Lydia said, "There's a way to speak to them."

                Lair approached the glass. "Prove it. Ask Jacob for Merc's full name."

                "Why not your name?" Stiles asked. He doubted her parents named her Lair.

                "I don't want to hear it."

                Scott said, "I assume if you weren't locked in here, you would be searching for a way home."

                "Yeah, but that wouldn't help him." She motioned to Stiles.

                "Are you still going to kill me?" Stiles asked.

                Lair turned away like he was too stupid for her to look at any longer. "I'm not going to kill you. The spider is dead, which is about as spited as you can get, and if your pack can talk to Jacob, I want them happy with me." She turned back to Stiles and pointed at his face. "You can no longer survive the void."

                "Is _your_ eye void-y enough to get me there?" Stiles asked her. He'd planned to get a glass eye, but a magic eye would be more useful, even if a raven's eye would be weaker than a nightmare's.

                "No."

                Stiles couldn't tell if she was being honest or just liked having two eyes. Either way, they weren't reaching an agreement with her today. Lydia needed to speak with the other guy.

                "Well, this was almost pointless," Stiles said. "I guess we'll be back in a few days."

                "Stiles," Lydia said, "do you believe her when she says she won't kill you?"

                "I believe her when she says it's against her best interest," Stiles said. "I think that's enough."

                Scott nodded, "Then we'll be back with Merc's name and an offer to free you."

                Lair turned toward Scott. "Let me guess, you'll tell me, again, to leave town."

                Scott replied, "Yes, and we'll ask that you tell us if you find a way back, even if Stiles can't follow."

                A knowing smile spread over Lair's lips. "Because there's another Stiles who can."

                Lydia turned her back to Lair and led the others away. Back in the car, she took a moment to grip the steering wheel before pulling away from Eichen. They were quiet at first. They had hoped to accomplish more today.

                Scott said, "Before we get back to the house, can you tell me what Stiles wanted you to say?"

                "Not while I'm driving," Lydia said. "I'm sorry."

                "It's okay," Scott assured her. "We can clear everyone out if we need to. Most of them probably already left."

                They didn't talk about anything else. Stiles tried to think what the other guy could want Lydia to share but came up empty. At the house, they found Malia and Noah playing War with a deck of cards. Malia was winning and had a huge grin on her face until she saw Lydia.

                "What's wrong?" Malia asked as she stood. "Did Lair do something?"

                "No," Lydia said.

                "We have to wait for proof from her friends," Scott explained. "It'll be a few days since we have to ask Stiles then wait for him to hear back and tell us."

                Malia frowned but nodded.

                Scott put a hand on Lydia's arm. "Lydia and I were going to talk about something private, is it okay—"

                "She can stay," Lydia interrupted. "I think I can handle you four."

                Noah suggested, "Why don't you all sit down?"

                Scott led Lydia to a seat between himself and Malia. Stiles sat beside Noah.

                "Whenever you're ready," Scott said.

                Lydia nodded, but didn't speak right away. Scott waited, watching her instead of pressing.

                When Lydia spoke, it was in a voice quiet with strain. "He started seeing someone."

                "When did you break up? Are you okay?" Malia demanded.

                Lydia bit her lip and shook her head rather than answer.

                Stiles frowned. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he start dating someone just to leave them behind?" He remembered Lydia had asked if the other guy could be honest with Heather and said she had died in this universe. "It better not be Heather."

                "It's not. He's... struggling with a lot of things, and I think he's latched onto someone who makes him feel important." Lydia shook her head. "I don't know if that's the right word."

                "Who is it?" Scott asked. His voice was gentle. He put a hand on Lydia's shoulder even though this wasn't the kind of pain he could take.

                "Peter."

                "Peter _Hale_?" Scott asked, incredulous.

                "Peter Hale," Lydia confirmed.

                Stiles whispered, "Holy shit."

                Noah grunted like he'd been punched in the gut.

                Peter was like family, like Stiles' uncle, and besides that, a hot, rich uncle way out of Stiles' league. Stiles had seen pictures of the other guy. He wasn't as skinny as Stiles, but neither was he buff or charismatic. He always had a goofy look on his face and posed his limbs like he wasn't quite sure how to fit them all in frame. All of that put Lydia and Malia out of the other guy's league too, but both had dated him. Maybe he was more charming in person.

                Stiles knew Lydia and the other guy had some trouble after she saw the void, but he'd almost believed they'd make up. He wondered if the other guy had done it to make Lydia jealous, if he was punishing her with this.

                Scott growled, "And he wants you to tell everyone this and report back to him?"

                Lydia didn't answer. She looked at her hands, resting on the table.

                "What the hell is wrong with him?" Malia asked.

                "He's been away too long," Lydia said.

                "Don't defend him," Scott ordered. "He _knows_ this will hurt you."

                "If he's dating Peter because he's decided he's not coming home, this hurts _all of you_ ," Stiles pointed out.

                "Lydia's the one who has to deal with him," Malia said. "She's the one he was supposed to be in love with."

                "She's the one who can't avoid him," Scott clarified.

                "Not without being as selfish as he is," Lydia agreed.      

                Noah's hands clenched into fists in his lap.

                Stiles said, "If everyone's as upset as this, that means it will hurt the other guy too. Why would he want to know that?"

                Lydia said, "Maybe he thinks it will be easier. We don't have a way to get him back. Maybe he's hoping it will hurt less if we don't want him."

                "Hurt less for who?" Malia demanded. "He's hurting _you_."

                "You're not telling anyone else," Scott said. "And I'm not telling you how they react when I do."

                "Are we sure he's not lying?" Stiles asked.

                "I thought he might be," Lydia admitted, "but it's true. He defended it too... It's true."

                "Sorry," Stiles said. "It just doesn't make sense. Peter and I never..."

                Malia said, "I dated Stiles, but I'm not attracted to you."

                "Thanks." Stiles made no attempt to sound sincere.

                Malia made a face at him like he was the one who said something weird.

                Lydia looked up from her hands to Noah. "You haven't said anything."

                "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry he's putting you through this."

                "It's not your fault."

                "I raised him," Noah said. "I thought I raised him better."

                "He's hurt too," Lydia said. "I pushed him. I shouldn't be surprised he pushed back."

                Malia frowned at that.

                "I'm still worried about him," Lydia said. "He's never been so close to the void while fully himself. I'm worried it's affecting him. He thinks he's better there."

                Noah reached across the table to take Lydia's hand. "Thank you," he said, "for caring so much about my son. We can help him later. I think right now, you're allowed to just be hurt."

                Lydia blinked back tears until they overwhelmed her. Malia hugged her, if awkwardly, while Scott rubbed her back.

                "I'm sorry," Stiles said, not sure what else to say. He got up and poured Lydia a glass of water. Crying would make her thirsty. She hugged him when he set it down, so he apologized again.

                Stiles didn't belong in this moment. He'd lost his eye. The void would kill him. The other guy couldn't hurt him like he had everyone else.


	35. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles learns how his loved ones reacted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this moment, I regret not having a beta reader. But on the other hand: lmao Dylan plays a character named Mitch in American Assassin (this will make sense momentarily...).

Stiles tossed the popcorn and caught it in his mouth. Dream power meant he never had to miss, unless Lydia interfered.

                "Really, Stiles?" she asked.

                She sat at the desk rather than on the bed, where Stiles lounged with a bowl of popcorn. She seemed annoyed, but not mad. Stiles had expected her to be angry, but she seemed too calm. Maybe it was a sign of tight control. Maybe she was smug about how angry the pack was at him. So far, she had refused to tell them how they took the news. The night before, she popped in, told him she needed Merc's full name and that she'd told the pack about Peter. Then she'd popped right back out. Stiles spent half the day caught between hoping the pack would be pissed and hoping they'd see through him. He spent the other half distracting himself with Peter.

                "You made me wait first," Stiles said.

                "You're in another universe. You've got all the time in the world."

                Stiles rolled his eyes. "Gregory Mercutio Fairfax. I guess Greg didn't sound cool enough for his edgy bird gang."

                "You could reasonably go by Mitch."

                "God, no."

                "Maybe Merc felt the same."

                "Point conceded." Stiles tossed a piece of popcorn at her though. "If Lair doesn't know about Merc, break it to her gently, and tell her that her friends miss her. I've been texting Jacob, and he's not so bad when he isn't putting my life in danger."

                "I'll tell her," Lydia promised. She furrowed her brows, studying Stiles. "I only told Scott, Malia, Stiles, and your dad about Peter."

                "And?"

                "They disapprove."

                "I expected them to. Are there details?" He shook his popcorn at her.

                "Are you sure you want to know?" Lydia asked.

                "Why wouldn't I?"

                "Wouldn't you rather hear they said they love you?"

                "Just tell me."

                "It won't make you miss them less. It will only hurt."

                "I want to know," Stiles insisted.

                Lydia shook her head but said, "Your father apologized to me. He said he thought he raised you better. Scott told me not to defend you. Malia wanted to know what the hell is wrong with you."

                Stiles forced a shrug. He hadn't expected less. If they thought he was scum, they'd get over losing him sooner. If they didn't want him, he'd get over losing them too.

                "Stiles thought it was a lie. He apologized to me too."

                "So did I," Stiles pointed out.

                "No," Lydia corrected. "You only apologized for hiding it from me, and I still don't know how long you hid it for."

                "Officially, a few days, and a lot of the buildup was subconscious." Stiles realized he hadn't apologized for making his ex-girlfriend relay and report on news about his new boyfriend. "I'm sorry. If I could ask someone else to do this, I would. I'm not trying to hurt you."

                "Hurting me just isn't enough to stop you," Lydia said.

                "Then don't tell the others," Stiles snapped. "You don't have to agree to everything I ask."

                "Scott already said he would tell them for me, and he won't tell me how they react."

                That Stiles was angry meant it was working. He didn't need to sever his ties, but straining them couldn't hurt. Or, it would hurt a lot, but it would help too. He couldn't get home. The sooner everyone accepted that, the happier they could be. Lydia watched him through narrowed eyes.

                "That hurts too, doesn't it?" she asked. "We both hurt each other, but everyone sided with me because you abandoned them for Peter. I tried to defend you, or at least explain you, and they told me to stop."

                "I didn't—" Stiles cut himself off. Defending himself more would only convince Lydia to forgive him. Then she'd be both hurt and miss him.

                "I won't help you hurt yourself anymore," Lydia said, "especially not when it hurts the rest of us too. I'm sorry I agreed in the first place."

                Stiles bit his nail. He suspected he had, in fact, accomplished nothing more than confusing his friends into thinking he was staying for Peter instead of dating Peter because he was staying.

                Lydia said, "Later, after we all cooled down, your dad asked me to tell you to be happy. He said he doesn't have to approve of everything you do so long as you live a life you're proud of."

                Stiles nodded, not sure what else to do. He had failed. He still wanted to go back. He took in a deep breath and reminded himself there was no way back. Lair could search for the rest of her life and never find anything.

                "Does that make it better or worse?" Lydia asked.

                "I miss him so much," Stiles admitted. _One_ message from his dad, and Stiles couldn't even convince himself, much less Lydia, that he'd committed to this. He thought he had. He knew he had no choice.

                "He misses you too," Lydia said. Her voice was soft. Her eyes were kind.

                "Is he okay?" Stiles asked. "Last time he lost me... but he has his memories this time, not just a hole. So he's better, right?"

                "Having Other Stiles helps too. He's not you, but at least your dad isn't alone."

                "He's doing right by my dad?"

                "Yes."

                "I was about to go away anyway, right? I just made it a little farther than DC."

                Lydia sighed. "You don't have to act brave for me, Stiles, and you better stop acting heartless. I know you too well to be fooled, but that doesn't mean I can't be hurt. I know you're less certain than you're acting.

                "I have to be certain, Lydia. It's... harder now. I never had to accept it was there before, but now I'm worried if I don't believe completely that I belong here, I'll try too hard to go back. I'll do something I'll regret, except I'll be too changed to regret it anymore." Stiles rubbed at his chest.

                "Or," she said, "you could accept help from the people who love you. Even if we don't get you home, we can support you, encourage you."

                "You're being too nice," he said.

                "I'm tired of fighting with you, and I'm preparing to upset you," she warned.

                "I'm ready," Stiles said. "Make me cry like a sacrificial baby."

                "First of all, sometimes you are really fucked up," Lydia said, apparently caught off guard. "Second, do you want to stay for yourself or for Peter?"

                "I really do like him, but he's not the reason I've done anything."

                "What does that world have for you that this one doesn't?"

                "Nothing."

                "Then why not fight to come home?"

                "I told you—"

                "And I told you we can help you resist. You admitted you gave up, so tell me why. I deserve that much."

                "You _all_ do," Stiles sighed. "You weren't... wrong. I'm not all figured out yet, and I don't think I'm a better person for being here. I didn't lie about being less afraid. I just left out things."

                "Things."

                "How much I miss all of you, especially my dad. I wanted to go back, and it's not like I'd just ignore it if Lair found something. But she can't. There's nothing to find. My way home died with Amara, and it was hopeless even while she lived."

                "We've known about interdimensional travel to parallel universes for all of two months, Stiles. Maybe there's something we don't know yet," Lydia insisted.

                Stiles shook his head. "Peter killed Merc in front of me, and I knew he wouldn't be the only one to die if I kept fighting. I've got no reason to believe anything can be found, and every reason not to search for what I can't find."

                Lydia said, "The way you explained it, you had nothing to do with killing him."

                "I didn't. I tried to trap him."

                "I don't see what you're trying to tell me," Lydia said, speaking slowly like she was amending what she wanted to say from something harsher.

                Stiles ran his hand through his hair and gave it a tug. "I'm not good at explaining," he said. "If I kept fighting, I would have had to push further and further each time. There's nothing to find, but if there was, I would have killed someone to get it. I don't know how. The specifics don't matter so much as that I realized I'd be willing to. Lydia, I've killed for my dad before."

                Lydia started to say something but stopped herself. She waited a moment longer before asking, "So you gave up on yourself and on all of us?"

                "Just because I know you wouldn't give up on me doesn't mean I'd still deserve it by the time I got to you," Stiles said. "How long until I hurt someone? How long until the void looks like a viable option?"

                "You're simplifying things that can't be simplified."

                "I didn't think; I acted. I didn't know what I was doing. I shouted at you that I wasn't changed, remember? I believed that. I could feel it the same way I do now, but I wouldn't believe it."

                Lydia took his hand. "Then maybe that's a sign you should trust me."

                "I do."

                "You're not acting like it."

                "How are you going to get Other Stiles back here?" he asked with a sigh. "Or do you want us both with you?"

                Instead of answering, Lydia asked, "Did they tell you how he killed the other Lydia's mother?"

                Stiles shook his head. "If he's a darach, I can guess."

                "I can't imagine how you could change so much that you could kill someone that way. I can't even picture _him_ doing it," Lydia said.

                "I can," Stiles said. "He watched someone shoot his father, and then he watched him die."

                "That's enough?"

                "Yes."

                "How can you be sure?"

                "My dad almost died before. I'm sure."

                Lydia was quiet a moment before she spoke again. "I think he changed after coming here, after leaving there. I don't think he wants to be a darach, and I don't think he would do any of that again."

                "Okay." Stiles wasn't sure where she was going with this.

                "He was hurting so much, Stiles. I can't imagine how bad things are there that he seems better off being among near-strangers here."

                Stiles frowned. Maybe Lydia meant to keep both versions of Stiles after all. He wasn't certain they could coexist—if they could, then why switch? Then again, no one had switched places for Satomi's betas or Lair. Maybe they didn't exist on the other world. Maybe dying made it a null point. Maybe wereravens got special permission slips. Stiles didn't know—couldn't know.

                He said, "Everyone here cares about him a lot. He's like family to them. Derek is basically a nanny, constantly nagging me to eat on time and floss my teeth. Maybe the difference is that Other Stiles has a father again."

                "Maybe the difference is that we believed he could be better," Lydia countered. "They accepted what he did and what he was becoming."

                "I told you that _I'm_ fighting becoming anything."

                "Why did you tell me to free Lair?" she asked. "She could find you a way home. Why tell us to have her look if not to return?"

                "To distract you, to make you feel like you were doing something. Do you think, if her chances of finding something else were good, Lair would have stuck around Beacon Hills with a spider who may or may not have killed her? If there was a way back from here, Jacob and Piper would have used it to reach her."

                "You've admitted to an astounding lack of self-awareness, Stiles. Maybe you still want to come home."

                "Of course I want to go home, but I can't. I don't understand why you won't let me accept that I'm staying here. Amara's dead, and Other Stiles can't cross the void. You know I'm not coming back. I'm _never_ coming back." Stiles brushed the hair from Lydia's face. "So I'm going to make this world mine."

                Lydia tilted her head. Something passed behind her eyes, but Stiles couldn't read it.

                Stiles continued, "I've never been able to hide anything from you. If you think I have doubts, it's because I do. They don't matter. If you think I've changed, it's because I have. I'm not going back to who I was, and I'm not going back to where I lived. I can't."

                Lydia sighed. She said, "The only path is forward."

                Stiles nodded.

                "Do you really believe you'll be happy there?" she asked.

                "I'd still miss home, but yeah. Maybe I shouldn't..."

                "You deserve to be happy," Lydia told him.

                "So do you, Lydia."

                She smiled. It was strained, but it was a start. "I'm going to be better than happy."

                "And what's better than happy?"

                "I'm going to live every dream I have, and I'm going to do it all one semester ahead of you."

                "Oh, we're going there, are we?" Stiles smiled too. He knew he and Lydia would need more time to find their new normal, but he hoped that if she could joke with him, maybe they'd begun. "Because I'm going to spend that first semester in luxury with no school, no homework, no job, and waffles after sparring whenever I want."

                "Sparring?"

                "Everyone else was confused by my desire for waf—oh." Stiles realized they hadn't been confused because he was eating. They'd been confused because he had forced Peter to agree to help him plan just the night before. "Somehow I hadn't connected the night Merc died with the next morning. I was supposed to work on a way home. I went out with Peter for waffles instead. We went shopping. It was fun. I let it be fun."

                "You're allowed to have fun," Lydia said.

                Stiles opened his mouth to argue because so far she'd insisted he had to believe he could go home, but he snapped it shut. He didn't want to argue anymore, and he knew Lydia didn't either. Stiles thought she understood.

                She said, "You still haven't told me about sparring."

                Stiles rolled his eyes even though it felt forced. "Peter insists I should be able to fend off an attacker and run for my life, which means sparring three days a week and running another three. Now that I stopped willing away my tattoo, it's easier, but not fun. I know I was on the lacrosse team, but it's not like I was good."

                " _What_ about your tattoo? How much have you not been telling me?"

                Stiles unbuttoned his shirt so he could show Lydia the reduced tattoo on his back. He turned around. "It was disappearing, but Derek figured out it was because my will was working against it. It wasn't important compared to Other Me being hunted by monsters."

                He turned and shrugged his shirt back on his shoulders. "Anything else?" Stiles asked as he buttoned his shirt again. He was halfway through before remembering he could fix it instantly with dream rules.

                "You tell me."

                "Malia knows how to play Mario Kart."

                "Stiles," Lydia sighed, though her mouth twitched into a smile.

                "Melissa and Heather know about me now. I still haven't convinced Peter to let me talk to the hunters. I expect it'll take most of my extra semester to do." Stiles chewed at his lip, trying to think of anything relevant he'd forgotten.

                "What makes you think the hunters will listen?" Lydia asked.

                "I met Other You. She wasn't going to kill me. She figured out from half a minute's exposure to me that I wasn't the right Stiles. I think she's more like you than he wanted to admit."

                "About as different as he is from you, I'd guess." Lydia tilted her head though, like she was thinking on it more than her comment suggested.

                Stiles shrugged. "It's still better to try than to kill each other."

                Lydia nodded. "Can I ask you to promise me something?"

                "You can ask," Stiles said hesitantly.

                "Don't try to push us away again. If you're having trouble, we can help you. Believe we can help you."

                "I can promise that," Stiles agreed. "I'm sorry I tried. I'm sorry for a lot of things."

                "And I'm sorry I didn't believe you about Peter. You didn't even try to oversell him. I just..."

                "I sort of left you for him. I get it. I didn't handle it well."

                "When you told me you met someone, I was hurt," Lydia said. "I wanted to accept that I don't own you and that you can't help having feelings for someone, but I also didn't like the idea that you moved on so quickly. Then you said it was Peter. I get that he's probably different, but I've only known one version of him."

                Stiles kissed Lydia's forehead and set a finger under her chin to tilt her head back. "I don't think I'll ever move on from you, Lydia Martin. Peter's just going to have to live with you in my head; so will everyone else."

                "You know that's not what I meant."

                Stiles nodded. She meant romantically.

                He said, "I was angry at myself. I felt guilty for falling for someone when I should have been leaving him, even though it wouldn't make sense to treat them all like enemies and strangers after living here with them."

                "Since I was already upset, I let myself believe staying there, dating Peter, and leaving us behind were all part of the same thing for you. I didn't even tell the others you had other reasons for staying, so they thought you were just trying to get back at me for our breakup."

                "Which is why they're so mad at me."

                Lydia winced. "Part of it. I'll tell them you were just scared."

                "I'm not sure scared is quite right," Stiles said.

                "You're afraid you'll never see them again," Lydia said. "Maybe you felt it less since you'd shed so many other fears, but it's still there."

                "I understand you'll keep looking," Stiles said, "but you get why I can't, right?"

                "You can be stronger than you give yourself credit for, but," she paused, "you did just try to make everyone else stop looking by parading your boyfriend around to make us mad instead of explaining why you care for him and that your real reasons for staying have nothing to do with him."

                "Hey, I told you why I care for him. I described his smile, didn't I? Did I mention his eyes?"

                "Stiles."

                He grinned. "I'm being difficult. Would I still be me if I wasn't?"

                She shook her head. "I get that you need time, but talk to me. Maybe we'll find a way to get you home, and maybe we won't. Maybe it'll be in a week, or a decade, or never. Just don't try to push us away. If you can't look, we'll do it for you. If you reach a place where you can, just believe that doesn't have to negate everything you find there. It's not going to be simple."

                "I thought I could make it simple," Stiles admitted.

                "All you did was make yourself look like a jerk."

                "To be fair, that was my plan."

                "It was a worse plan than the time we went to the Calavera's club in Mexico."

                "You hated that plan."

                "Which should tell you how bad this one is."

                Stiles hesitated before asking, "We can still be friends, right? You're not just being nice for the sake of the others?"

                "We're friends," she promised. She kissed his cheek and faded from the dream.

                It was two in the morning when Stiles opened his eyes. He'd wanted to cheat his way into accepting his life here, but he felt more at peace knowing Lydia forgave him than he had in pushing her away. That couldn't get him home, but maybe Lydia was right. They could help him with the rest.

                The void still called. It was both inside him and distant, though just within reach, right where the nogitsune left it. He didn't have to stay here. He didn't have to be afraid of hurting anyone. He didn't have to be afraid of anything. If he wanted to keep Peter and go home, the void would give him the power to bring Peter with him. Spiders and ravens had rules that kept them from being overwhelmed by the void, limitations that weakened their power. Stiles wasn't a bitten beast. He didn't have to follow anyone else's rules.

                Stiles curled into a ball, clenching his sheets in shaking hands. He refused to become void. He refused.

                He had reasons to stay now, not as strong as his reasons to leave, but he cared about this pack. They took him in, they supported him. They could have treated him as a placeholder or usurper. Instead, they treated him like part of their family. And Peter...

                Peter pushed the door open, like thinking his name had summoned him to Stiles' side. More likely, he'd heard Stiles' racing heart and uneven breaths. Peter crossed the room to Stiles' side and slid onto the bed to hold Stiles against his chest.

                "Do you think I should be looking for a way back?" Stiles asked, though his voice shook.

                "I'm biased," Peter said. "I want to keep you."

                "So you think I shouldn't?"

                "Do you want to stay more than you want to go back?" Peter asked. His breath tickled the back of Stiles' neck.

                "Does it matter? We're out of options. Should I look knowing I won't find anything, and that even if I could, we can't return Other Stiles too?"

                "I'm the one who told you to choose to stay," Peter said. "If you're asking me about it now, it means you haven't."

                "But I need to, don't I?"

                "Are you asking me because you're just that confused or because you want to hear specifically the answers I'd give?"

                "I don't know."

                "I don't want you to go. It's not my decision. I don't want you to waste time searching that you could be spending with me. That's also not my decision. You made all this clear when our relationship began." He pulled Stiles closer. "It's not Lydia's decision either."

                "If I don't look, am I abandoning them?"

                Peter snorted. "You need to talk to Derek or my therapist. I am not the one to answer these questions."

                "You are not very helpful."

                "I'm a sociopath, Stiles. Did you expect better?"

                "Sociopathy is not a proper medical term, and I suspect you know that," Stiles said.

                He felt Peter shrug behind him. "I guess you could try Scott too, but he may not be able to provide the long-term care you obviously need."

                Stiles turned around so he could pretend to slap Peter.

                Peter caught his wrist and pressed him back against the mattress, holding him there with the weight of his body.

                "That's one way to turn a conversation around," Stiles noted.

                Peter pressed one of his legs' between Stiles' and slid his tongue along Stiles' jaw to his ear.

                "Oh, God, stop unless we're fucking," Stiles pleaded.

                "Well, are we fucking?" Peter asked.

                "No? Maybe? Are we? I'm very distracted right now."

                "I noticed." He smirked. "Did you want to wait longer?"

                "I can't remember."

                Peter rolled off him. Stiles was at once relieved and disappointed.

                Peter said, "I didn't realize you were in such a delicate state. You were all over me only hours ago with no trouble."

                "Don't tease me," Stiles pouted. He closed his eyes so he could focus on his internal crisis instead of the way Peter watched him hungrily as he lounged on the small bed too close to Stiles. "Lydia said it would be enough if I let them search for me, but I don't know what I'd do if they found something."

                "You would go home," Peter said.

                "But what about Other Stiles? He can't cross."

                "There would be two of you then."

                "And you would be alone."

                "Yes."

                "I don't want to leave you alone," Stiles said.

                "Good, I don't want that either, but I never asked you to give up on them," Peter reminded him. "I told you to accept your place here, and you have. But I said it knowing your father will always matter more than I can."

                "I thought you couldn't help me," Stiles prodded.

                "I may find a way to tie you up so you can't go back."

                "That sounds more like you." Stiles grinned. "You're not bothered by the idea of losing me?"

                "I'm confident they won't find anything," Peter said. "And you made me promise to get you home before I ever wanted you for more than a packmate, though I never promised not to convince you to stay."

                Stiles wriggled forward to kiss him. "You're a surprisingly satisfactory boyfriend."

                "You're terrible at compliments," Peter said.

                Stiles rolled over to snuggle his back against Peter's chest. Peter held him close.

                Stiles said, "I'll be good at other things for you."

                Peter tensed. As he relaxed, he placed a kiss to the back of Stiles' neck and said, "Later. It's bed time now."

                The warmth of Peter's arms lulled Stiles back to sleep.


	36. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles hasn't found a way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark Stiles' last scene! The final chapter will go up tomorrow~

Lydia sat on the couch between Scott and Malia. Stiles did a double-take when he saw them. Both werewolves had earbuds in and removed them at the sight of Stiles. They could physically limit their hearing but had opted for a performative blockage, probably for Stiles' benefit.

                They must have heard him before they opted not to listen in. He'd been in the restroom for a while. Losing his dinner only took a moment. Lying on the bathroom rug, while his father stood in the hall outside the locked door trying to apologize, took longer. Stiles was still shaky, his face still pale. He'd expected to be alone once his father retreated to his own room to be sorry from a distance. The pack must have finished early with Lair.

                "How long have you been there?" Stiles asked.

                "Not long," Lydia said unconvincingly as she pulled him to sit between her and Scott on the couch. Malia moved to sit on the arm so they would be less cramped.

                "Lair?" he asked.

                "Free," Scott answered. "We made sure she left town, and Corey will keep an eye out just in case."

                "Which way did she go?"

                "East," Malia answered.

                "I don't think she sensed anything yet," Scott said.

                Lydia said, "I have messages for you. Scott asked me to give you a hug." She put her arms around him and squeezed, and Stiles knew she meant the other Scott. "Peter says your wards have failed. Malia promises to protect the pack."

                "They're gonna need it since the other guy won't learn magic," Stiles muttered.

                Lydia continued, "Cora says she misses you and promises you the cocoa mug."

                Stiles stood. "I've never wanted anything more than that mug. I have to go. Bye."

                Lydia grabbed his hand and pulled him back to the couch, laughing, if weakly.

                "A mug?" Malia asked.

                "It's her favorite mug, so I steal it sometimes when I know she's about to use it," Stiles explained.

                Malia looked unconvinced.

                Lydia continued, "Derek tried to send his message in code, but Stiles is pretty sure it means, 'Eat food, not trees.'"

                "Sounds like Derek. What was the code?" Derek knew that Stiles sustained himself physically on power drawn from the nemeton, or had when he'd been at full power living with a healthy nemeton. Now he shared his meals with the toilet as often as not. Melissa insisted he'd get used to eating more than one meal a day and advised he build up slowly. He could almost manage an extra snack before feeling sick, so maybe she was right.

                Lydia shared the code, and sure enough, the other guy had cracked it.

                "At least tell me it took him a while to figure out," Stiles pleaded. They'd spent ages developing and memorizing that code, mostly so they could joke about Peter right in front of him.

                Lydia shook her head, "Apparently, he found some hints on your laptop weeks ago."

                "Tell him he's a prying asshole, and tell Derek he's not my mom."

                Lydia smiled at that while Scott snickered. Stiles wondered what their Derek was like. Apparently he'd left town, which was much better than dead.

                Lydia said, "Heather says she loves you."

                Stiles didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded. He did wonder if Heather had actually said that, or if it had been in past tense.

                Lydia nodded her understanding and continued, "Stiles wants to make peace with the hunters. Any chance that could work?"

                Stiles shook his head. Kate Argent had massacred Peter's family. Peter had killed her for revenge. Now the hunters wanted to kill him and Derek for the same. And Stiles for the people he'd killed as part of the pack.

                "I'll keep you updated anyway," Lydia said.

                "How can you be so sure you'll always be able to reach him?" Stiles asked. She'd already lost her connection once.

                "Banshees are supposed to predict death, but I've always heard more than that when it comes to Stiles. Besides, I'm a supernatural creature. I can do what I want."

                "That's not how it works," Stiles said. Monsters may not always know their own limits, but that hardly meant they didn't have any.

                "You're not a banshee, so you don't get to say how it works." She paused, and her expression grew thoughtful. "I can feel that I'm connected to him, to both of you. I'll always be able to reach Stiles."

                "Does that mean you're not mad at him anymore?" Stiles asked.

                Lydia shook her head. "He's convinced there's no way back. He was trying to push us away to... soften the blow."

                "He's an idiot," Malia said.

                "Does that mean he lied after all?" Scott asked.

                "Just left things out," Lydia answered.

                Scott must have made a face that Stiles couldn't see out of his missing left eye because Malia nodded and Lydia grimaced, both looking over Stiles' shoulder.

                Lydia said, "Some of it might be my fault. I didn't tell you everything he told me last time, though even that wasn't complete. He thought he knew best and acted on that, but he's promised to trust us from now on."

                "So just the be clear," Stiles asked, "he's really dating Peter?"

                "Yes. As far as I can tell, he genuinely likes him. I guess he smiles more than Peter here?" Lydia shrugged, at a loss. None of them could meet Peter.

                "He does," Stiles said, "but only because if your Peter encountered happiness he would bite it and expect a thank you, whereas the one back home expects a thank you for not biting it."

                "So Peter's better there?" Malia sounded more confused than not.

                "Has your father ever considered therapy?" Stiles asked. "Maybe it would help."

                "Peter has a therapist?" she asked.

                Stiles nodded.

                "Stiles didn't mention that," Lydia said.

                "He may not know," Stiles said. "Peter tries to keep it a secret. He schedules his bank meetings on the same days as his therapy appointments like no one will notice it takes twice as long. I also think he likes the excuse to wear a suit to therapy."

                "If he's even a little obvious, then Stiles noticed," Scott said.

                Stiles would have to take their word for it. He couldn't meet the other guy any more than they could meet Peter. Though if Peter liked him, the other guy had to be smart.

                Stiles asked, "If the other guy thinks there's no way back, does that mean he's wrong or does that mean there isn't?"

                "We can't know that yet," Lydia said. "It's too soon."

                "But we'll find out," Scott promised. He put a hand on Stiles' shoulder to reassure him.

                Stiles patted Scott's hand absently. They had all been so upset when Lydia told them before, but Stiles got the feeling they'd been ready to forgive the other guy even before Lydia revealed his poor attempt at manipulation. Stiles wondered where the line was, how far someone had to go for this pack to consider them beyond redemption. It wasn't just loyalty; that would only extend to their own. But they'd accepted Stiles, and they'd freed Lair. Their forgiveness was for _everyone_.

                The vial of ink Stiles had made from Lydia's blood still sat on a shelf in his room. It would have worked. Stiles scratched at the temple beside his left eye socket. He could still use the ink if he found another demon.

                "I can see you're thinking something," Lydia said, "the kind of something you'd be best not considering."

                Stiles frowned. He'd spent a lot of time with Lydia since coming here, but not so much that she should read him so easily. Even Heather had needed years. Peter still couldn't most days, and Derek cared less to interpret than to monitor him.

                Lydia said, "Your faces and mannerisms are nearly identical. I've had enough time with you now to learn the parts that aren't."

                Stiles should have thought of that. At least the other guy would suffer the same.

                "Except that your tells are more obvious," Malia said.

                Or not.

                Lydia turned her head to face her. "Malia."

                "They are," Malia insisted.

                Lydia turned back to Stiles and raised her eyebrows, so Stiles shrugged. She asked, "Are you going to tell me what it was?"

                "The ink would work," Stiles said, realizing his mistake too late. He should have gone with a conditional perfect: 'would _have_ work _ed.'_

                "For?" Scott asked.

                "See," Malia said.

                Stiles groaned. "It would work if I found another demon, and maybe it could still get me home if Lair found something. Maybe Lair could even find the demon for me since she senses the void."

                Lydia pressed her lips into a thin line. She studied Stiles' hands, though they both knew he had healed enough to write a binding even if he'd been too late to erase the surface scarring. His scars would fade with time, but over the course of years, maybe decades.

                "Would you survive that?" Scott asked.

                "No," Lydia answered for him, though the rest she directed at Stiles, "If you wrote a weaker binding, the demon would overpower you, and if you wrote the same binding, you wouldn't survive it escaping after you crossed through the void."

                "I could complete our original plan using my original ink," Stiles insisted.

                "We never knew if that would work, Stiles. I don't believe you would survive."

                "Are you saying that as a banshee?"

                "I'm saying it as your friend."

                "But _not_ a banshee."

                She shook her head. "At least don't do anything rash without the pack. I know we'll seem far away, but we're here for you."

                "Scott and I will be close enough to drive back," Malia said.

                "Our parents will still be here," Scott added. "And Liam and the others too."

                Stiles hadn't technically decided not to go to college in the other guy's place, or at least he hadn't told anyone yet that he wouldn't. Almost, he wanted to go out of spite, but he had no interest in the other guy's dreams. Stiles could save people with magic that the other guy would never be able to help with the FBI.

                "If I left, you could get your Stiles back," Stiles reminded them.

                Lydia took his hand. "We'll keep searching for other ways to help you survive, but none of us want him back so badly we'd kill you for it."

                Stiles asked, "What if we find a way to get him back but not a way to protect me?"

                "We'll figure it out," Scott said.

                "What if we find nothing?" Stiles pressed.

                "Then Stiles was right," Malia said.

                "Then at least we'll have tried," Lydia corrected.

                "The void could bring him through," Stiles said.

                Lydia shook her head. "He wouldn't be himself anymore if he used it. He can't."

                "He can, but he shouldn't," Stiles said. "Is that why he gave up?"

                Lydia nodded. "That, and he's afraid he'll go too far."  
                Stiles had assumed using the void _was_ going too far, unless she meant something specific that she'd left vague for fear of saying it.

                "You mean killing someone," Stiles said. "He's afraid that if he lets himself hope, home is something he'd kill for."

                Lydia nodded. The others didn't rush to the other guy's defense.

                Stiles asked, "Is he right?"

                "Of course not," Lydia said. Stiles didn't believe her, but the others didn't dispute it.

                "Does this all mean we should or should not keep looking?" Stiles asked.

                "We keep looking," Scott said. He leaned into Stiles' field of vision to ask, "Do _you_ still want to find a way back?"

                "Yeah, of course. They're like my family."

                Scott said, "Then we definitely keep looking."

                Stiles stood. "I should talk to my dad."

                If the other guy had given him up, Noah could be Stiles' dad.

                The others filed out with many backward glances. Scott gave him a hug and promised everything would be okay.

                Stiles found Noah in his room. It looked just like the master bedroom Stiles remembered from his old house. He hadn't kept the photos from the dresser or the partial bottle of Claudia's perfume that Noah had hidden in the nightstand. Stiles had told Peter to get rid of it all and never returned. He didn't even know who bought the house.

                Noah's eyes were red, though he had dried them. He sat at the edge of his bed, holding a picture of his real son sitting beside Noah's dead wife.

                "I'm sorry," Stiles said. "If I could bring him back, I would."

                "I know."

                "Lydia was right. He's scared he can't come back, so that stunt the other day was to push you all  away." Stiles leaned against the doorway, unsure if he was welcome in Noah's room.

                Noah nodded. "I know. He's my son. He can't fool me so easily."

                "But you apologized to Lydia... because she was hurt, not because you believed your son abandoned you." Stiles sighed.

                Noah stood and left the photo on the bed. He crossed the room to set a hand on Stiles' shoulder and look him in the eye. "Imagine he's your brother instead of a different you. I'll miss one of my boys, but that can't make me stop loving the other. You're my son too, Stiles."

                It was almost painful for Stiles to  simultaneously love his father and mourn him. Stiles could feel Noah's hand on his shoulder, and he could remember burying him.

                "I missed you," Stiles said. It was the closest he knew to explain how he felt. In a way, having a father meant he could lose him again, but it still meant _having a father._

                "It's okay, Stiles. You can cry too, if you need to."

                He did. Noah held him, and they rocked slowly as Noah rubbed Stiles' back.

                "I can't go to DC," Stiles said. "You're alive. I can't just leave you."

                "So stay. Take your time. Do what you can, and we'll figure out the rest."

                They stayed in the doorway a long time. Stiles had always believed he would get home. He'd been afraid to spend too much time with Noah, afraid it would hurt too much to leave him behind.

                The other guy was right, nothing indicated they had any chance of reaching their home universes again. There were literally countless worlds, an infinity of possibilities for the destination of any bridge Lair found. There were fewer werespiders than worlds, elsewise every world would have at least one. With Stiles' demon eye gone, nothing would draw spiders to him. The other guy had a slightly better chance, assuming a spider actively looking for either void or displacement visited that Earth at a location close enough to the other guy to sense him. And they approached him, or got close enough that he noticed them. And they agreed to help. And they knew a way to help Stiles survive the void without his eye and the other guy pass through again without getting worse.

                It wasn't nothing, but neither was it likely. Stiles would be here a long time, if not forever. This was his world now, a world with Noah Stilinski alive.


	37. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles thinks on what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Thank you all~

Stiles didn't cry sending off Scott and Cora for college. He did kiss them both on the cheek and tell them to text frequently so he wouldn't miss them.

                Scott whispered, "Dude, are you crying?"

                "No, but my eyes are glistening with my love for you, Scott." Stiles fluttered his eyelashes.

                Cora said, "We'll be fine, Stiles."

                "It's me I'm worried about," Stiles insisted. "You've seen Derek and Peter in a room together for more than five minutes before. I can't handle that alone."

                She rolled her eyes, but Stiles thought it was in an amused way.

                They made their goodbyes to Malia, Derek, and Peter with many promises to call and visit. Stiles guessed Scott had already said goodbye to his mom. Then Cora and Scott climbed into the car Peter was 'lending' Scott to move in. Scott would drop her off at the airport, and Peter would get out of actually being helpful. Stiles wondered how long it had taken for Melissa to agree.

                Derek and Malia both headed inside the house. They were installing a physical secret door to the basement and disguising it as shelves of laundry detergent and towels. Derek had kidnapped Stiles' laptop to watch YouTube tutorials for two days straight before announcing his plans and taking Peter's (not secret but Stiles hadn't known about it) truck to buy supplies.

                Stiles pulled Peter to the back porch where they could pretend to be alone. They could have walked into the woods, but there wasn't furniture there. Stiles sat in a patio chair, holding Peter's hand and enjoying the sunlight.

                "Would you rather you had never come here?" Peter asked, clearly trying to spoil a perfectly good morning.

                "That's not fair," Stiles said.

                "So that's a yes?"

                Stiles grunted. He wasn't sure how to answer. If he never came here, he would be with his friends and his dad. Technically, he'd be in Washington DC, but in the same universe as them with ways to visit and talk. Of course he still wanted that.

                But he'd never have met Peter and his pack. This was a new family. Their place in his heart wasn't as strong, but they still had a place. He liked them, and he liked being here. He wanted that too.

                He just wanted to have both at once, and he couldn't.

                "Someday," Stiles said, "I'm going to have been here longer than I was there. Maybe then it won't be so hard."

                "Maybe it'll be a different hard," Peter said, "Maybe I'll finally come first."

                "Sorry," Stiles said.

                Peter waved his hand like he was shooing Stiles apology away. "I'm not a fool, Stiles. I know what home means to you."

                "Then why ask?"

                "I was curious what you'd say."

                "That's mean. You owe me ice cream now."

                "If you keep making me feed you, you really will be Fat Stiles."

                Stiles punched his arm, light enough that he knew it wouldn't hurt.

                "Terrible. I told you not to strike with a closed fist." Peter shook his head.

                He took Stiles' hand in his and pressed their palms together. He ran his other hand along Stiles' arm, training his gaze on its progress.

                "The void is keeping you up at night," Peter mused as his fingers reached Stiles' neck.

                "It will pass," Stiles assured him.

                Peter's fingers slipped behind Stiles' ear to stroke his hair. "How can you be sure?"  
                "I won't give in, so it won't have any other choice."

                His fingers trailed back down Stiles' neck to his chest. "Has it been this bad before?"

                "No."

                "Then how do you know you won't give in?"

                Stiles grabbed Peter's hand as it reached his waist. "It's supposed to scare me, but I'm not afraid. It will pass."

                "When? What if you go to college, and it's still there, but I'm not?"

                "I'll figure it out then," Stiles said.

                "That is a terrible plan."

                Stiles pressed forward to kiss Peter, shoving him down so he leaned across the arm of his patio chair.

                "I don't care," Stiles said, looming over Peter. "Plans go south."

                "I like plans. What plan has wronged you?"

                "My entire life plan, Peter." Rolling his eyes, Stiles pulled back.

                "Ah, I suppose I wasn't part of it."

                "Don't worry. I've amended every plan to 'wing it.'"

                "I'm definitely worried. You are aware that everyone believes you're acting rashly in regards to me, correct?"

                "You're aware that you talk like you're trying too hard, correct?"

                "If your plan is 'wing it,' does that mean you are, indeed, acting rashly?"

                "Is that a problem?" Stiles asked.

                "My plan was to resist your wiles and remain a professional alpha in all respects, so I think we can safely say I'm winging it too," Peter said wryly.   
                "Does it count as wiles if I'm not trying to seduce you? Because I wasn't."

                Peter shrugged. "I did always wonder if you knew the sound of water doesn't hide what you do in the shower."

                Stiles coughed. "I mean, it hid more than nothing would have, right?"

                "It's the thought that counts." Peter smirked.

                Stiles leaned forward. "Is that why, if we showered at the same time, you always took longer than I did?"

                Peter grabbed a handful of Stiles' shirt and pulled him forward into a kiss.

                When his lips were free, Stiles asked, "You always seemed pleased when I refused to let you outsmart me. Is that what you really wanted to do in those moments?"

                "Mm-hm," Peter murmured, pulling him in for another kiss.

                He pulled back again, and Stiles said, "Maybe you shouldn't stop doing that. You don't want me to forget how great it is when I go off to college next semester. Who knows how hot my classmates will be?" Stiles grinned as he teased.

                Peter was unperturbed. "It won't matter. You have a taste for older men now, so it's the professors I'm worried about."

                Stiles laughed. "I'll be sure to only have ugly teachers, for your sake."

                "I'm wealthy and don't have to work, so I'm sure I can visit you frequently enough to keep you loyal," Peter said.

                "Please do."

                "I may need a larger pack to be sure they're safe while I'm away."

                "Did you just use our relationship as an excuse to bite someone?" Stiles asked, squinting at Peter.

                "Multiple someones," Peter corrected.

                "Oh, that's better then."

                "I would let them choose, and you could have just said no."

                Derek had let Erica and Boyd choose, and they still wound up dead.

                "Would you listen?" Stiles asked.

                "I believe we're in what they call the honeymoon phase, so I'll do whatever my sweet boyfriend asks."

                "Was that a hint to ask for something?" Stiles didn't think he needed anything. After a moment, he thought of, "Can I have my old Jeep back?"

                "If it still runs," Peter said.

                "You mean you have it?"

                "Of course I do."

                "I thought Other Me sold his stuff."

                "He asked me to sell everything for him, so I put what seemed important in a storage unit and sold the rest with the house."

                "Oh." Stiles had not expected that.

                "If it's any less astounding, I had Derek select what to keep," Peter said.

                "Sorry."

                Peter shrugged. "I can show you and give you a key. The Jeep is parked in a garage, and I can get you access to that too. I do suggest you ask him for permission to access his bank accounts, but you won't be out of money either way." After a moment, Peter added, "If you'd like, I can also show you where his father's grave is."

                Stiles nodded mutely.

                "We don't have to do any of that now," Peter said, "but there is something I wanted to talk to you about."

                Stiles shrugged. "Shoot."

                Peter stroked Stiles cheek. "They think they see something in you that they didn't before, but you know they're wrong."

                "I already told Lydia I accept that I'm not the same now."

                "You're pretending it's because the void is calling you, but they void chose you because of who you already were." Peter brought his hand back past Stiles' jaw to massage his neck. Stiles wasn't sure if it was meant to be comforting, or if Peter couldn't resist touching him.

                "You know it's okay to settle in a little before you start trying to convince me I'm better off here," Stiles said.

                "Is that what I'm doing?"

                Stiles rolled his eyes.

                "The void can't tempt you if you don't want to go," Peter noted.

                "I just thought we were having fun instead of deep conversations," Stiles said.

                "Is this deep?" Peter asked. He leaned forward to press his nose to Stiles' neck and take a deep breath. "I swear I can smell it boiling just beneath your skin."

                "Are you a real person? Does anyone talk like that?"

                Stiles shuddered as Peter ran his tongue along his throat as if to see if he could taste it too.

                "Depends on the person. You, for example, deflect." Peter pulled back, smirking. "Just because your friends didn't see it, doesn't mean it wasn't there."

                "Am I to believe you saw this vague and mysterious 'it' that had better not be a fucking clown?" Stiles asked.

                "Now who's trying too hard?" Peter asked, smirking. "And, yes. So did you. It's why you wouldn't accept the bite."

                "Because I was afraid I'd go too far," Stiles said. "Does that mean I'm evil now? Did your nefarious plot to corrupt me succeed? Is this why I keep wanting to give Malia poisoned apples?"

                Peter rolled his eyes. "You're not evil. You're practical to the point of ruthlessness."

                "I'm the one trying to convince you we need peace with the Argents."

                "You're also the one who used Merc's death against Jacob to force an alliance. You told me Lydia wouldn't do the same against Lair, which means you suggested it. You abandoned your homeworld and the people in it and only told them after the fact. Should I go on?"

                "So what you're saying is I am your perfect boyfriend."

                "Obviously."

                "And maybe a little more the person I feared I was than the one I thought I was."

                "The thing about fear is that it's not so bad once you become the one to inspire it."

                "How would your therapist feel about you saying that?" Stiles prodded.

                "I don't pay him to feel," Peter said.

                "But you do pay him to provide a professional opinion."

                Peter narrowed his eyes. "Why? Are you considering couple's counseling so soon?"

                "I just really want this to work between us. I mean you're _incredibly_ hot."

                Peter actually chuckled at that. He studied Stiles a moment before letting out a sigh and saying, "I started this; I should be prepared to participate. My therapist advises I lead rather than intimidate, but he admits to having no answer for how to deal with being literally hunted like an animal."

                "He knows you're a werewolf?"

                "He wouldn't be much help if I had to lie to him about that," Peter said. "It would provide too good an excuse for other lies."

                "Does he know about me?" Stiles asked.

                Peter said, "He advised me not to covet you solely for the unavailability inherent in belonging to another universe."

                "Damn."

                Peter shrugged. "He said other reasons may be fine."

                " _May_ be?"

                "Depending on the reason. Dating you wouldn't work out if I liked you for being weak and impressionable."

                "Did he never advise you to talk to me directly?" Stiles asked.

                "You're a guest in my house and several years my junior. I am the alpha, and you're only recently pack. That's what they call a power imbalance. I still haven't figured out if we spar because I told you to or because you secretly admit I'm right."

                Stiles frowned. "Heather was right. You've abducted me to do your dirty work."

                "What?"

                "Ha! I win." Stiles grinned.

                "You mean she suspected me of using my position to manipulate you," Peter said, clearly annoyed at being a step behind.

                "Yeah, but she didn't know about werewolves."

                Peter nodded. "She wasn't fully wrong, though you refused to be molded."

                Stiles patted Peter's cheek. "We all have to fail sometimes."

                Peter smiled. "I've never been so pleased to fail."

                "That is the most romantic thing you've ever said to me. To be fair, that bar was so low it sat on the ground."

                "I live to please." Peter smirked.

                "To please _me,"_ Stiles corrected.

                The smirk widened into a smile. "I live to please _you."_ Peter glanced back toward the house. "What do you think my odds of getting Malia or Derek to bring us drinks are?"

                Stiles laughed. "I guess that depends on if we want them thrown at us."

                Sighing, Peter stood. "What do you want?"

                "Whatever's cold," Stiles said.

                "It's your fridge too. You know exactly what's in it, so don't be coy."

                "I feel so called out right now," Stiles said, feigning indignant shock. "Bring me orange soda."

                Peter rolled his eyes. He was gone for a moment and returned with two Sunkists and a smile. Stiles was still caught off guard by Peter's smiles. He looked like a different person, open and happy.

                "Are you staring because I'm pretty or because you spaced out?" Peter asked.

                "Pretty," Stiles answered without hesitation. He opened his soda and took a drink. He'd been spaced out too, but spaced out thinking about Peter.

                Stiles set his drink aside on the patio table and hopped onto Peter's lap. "I thought of something else I want from you."

                "What's that?" Peter put his arms around Stiles and smirked up at him.

                Stiles kissed him and tangled his fingers in Peter's hair. He could get used to kissing Peter. He loved the bite of Peter's teeth against his lips and the feel of Peter's hands running over his body, under his shirt.

                "I can hear you!" Derek shouted from inside the house. He beat on the wall between them that was far too little to block a werewolf's hearing.

                "Which means you know I'm enjoying myself and would like to be left alone," Stiles called back while Peter smirked. Stiles remembered he used to find that smirk infuriating, but damn was it sexy. Stiles leaned in to whisper, "Have they been listening the whole time?"

                "I'm not so careless," Peter assured him.

                Peter lifted Stiles from his lap. They were the same height, but Peter's strength meant he could lift Stiles as easily as he would a child.

                "Hey!" Stiles squawked.

                Peter set him back down where he'd been sitting and knelt in front of Stiles with his hands on the insides of his thighs.

                "We could always give them something to listen to," Peter suggested coyly.

                Stiles forgot how words worked. He knew they were shared via the mouth, but there was some sort of order or structure required. There were other things to do with mouths.

                Peter cocked his head. "They went downstairs."

                The basement was still well insulated, if not supernaturally soundproofed. Stiles would figure out how to fix it eventually. Not right now.

                Peter turned his smirk on Stiles. "Now, was I teasing them or you?" He ran one hand along the seam of Stiles' jeans.

                They were outside, but in the middle of nowhere with their privacy all but assured. They hadn't had sex yet. Stiles didn't even sleep cuddled in Peter's bed, though Peter visited his when the void kept him up.

                Stiles tried to imagine a better first time, one more befitting their relationship. He couldn't. Stiles didn't want candles and rose petals floating on a bubble bath. He wanted something messy and fun. He wanted to do things because he felt like it instead of because he felt like he should. He wanted Peter to do more than pet his leg.

                "Blow me, Peter," he said.

                Peter's smirk widened into a grin. He tugged Stiles forward by his shirt for a rough kiss. Then he pushed Stiles back and did as he was told.

                Eventually, they made it back inside to Peter's bed. The void still pulled at Stiles, but he held it at bay with Peter's arms around him like a shield. Laying with Peter was enough. It may not be all he wanted, but it was enough.


End file.
